


Love From 1964

by Sarai



Series: Stars from Home [12]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-06-04 20:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 75,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6673843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ororo and Scott return to New York, but with so many homes lost, she struggles to believe in this one. What are you if you can't feel at ease in your own home or your own skin? Meanwhile, Charles plans to bring a new student to the school...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just One of Those Days

Well… one of those days.

You know the sort: when you fell asleep with wet hair and woke up with a frayed mop; you missed breakfast and your stomach is growling; and now you're hurtling through galaxies at hundreds of miles a minute, faster than the ship is meant to handle. It's a wall-shaking speed that has you gripping the safety belt across your shoulders.

This might just be it. This might be the day that splats you like a bug on the pavement.

Ororo Munroe was not, in general, the sort of girl who needed a hand to hold. She stood on her own two feet as she had since she was five years old. She didn't need grown-ups, she didn't need a boy, all she needed was her wits and courage.

But right then she had too much fear and not enough courage to match it. The little craft seemed to press in on her lungs, deflating her like a loaf of bread. She wasn't just holding his hand, she was throttling it.

"When I get home…"

Scott Summers had been her foster-brother before all of this, before their accidental foray out of the galaxy. Whatever he was now, it was more than that, something there was no word for in any language she knew. He was the person she trusted with everything. She was the girl leaving bruises on his hand.

"When I get home," Scott began again, flashing her a shaky smile, "I'm going to eat an entire package of Oreos."

Six months, near as they could reason. They left in August of 1964; they would be home in February 1965. An extra month or two might have passed.

It didn't matter.

They were finally going home!

The time showed more clearly on Ororo. She had grown almost two inches in height and her face had slimmed, making her look _easily_ sixteen in her own almost-fifteen-year-old opinion. Scott did not age properly and the six months had barely changed him besides making his hair shaggy over his red-lensed glasses.

She shook her head. Really, Oreos?

"When I get home, I'm going to finally see the end of _Casablanca_."

Ororo felt a smile tugging at her lips, but refused to give in. He was just trying to make her happy and, on principle, she refused. It wasn't about their shaky transport anymore. It was on principle, and that principle was rivalry.

"When I get home, I'm going to sleep in a real bed."

Their spaceship home had accommodations, but even Ororo didn't think they were great—and she had slept on the floor for most of her childhood.

"When I get home, I'm going to recycle."

She couldn't help it: she laughed. "You're going to _recycle_?"

"Yup. Going to recycle."

It wasn't something done in space, although that may have been because there were so few plastics and glass items in use.

"Okay, what are you going to recycle?"

"I don't know. I'll fix up my bike and go into town, and keep collecting until I have a whole bag of Coke bottles, then I'll turn 'em in."

"You have a nerdy goal."

"You have a nerdy friend."

Ororo rolled her eyes. As she did, she noticed that her hand was no longer attempting to shatter the bones in his, only holding on lightly, like a habit. This time she did smile.

"Yeah… but I have the best nerdy friend."

For a while, they watched the blurs of worlds passing by.

They had dressed in their old clothes, their Earth clothes, and the shaking kept making her skirt ride up. Ororo was tired of pushing it down. So _what_ if the bright plaid collected over her lap? At least she wasn't wearing flares, unlike some people!

Flares. Every planet they had visited and she'd not once seen another pair of flares! (Nor plaid, but that wasn't the point.)

"If we land on the wrong one…"

"We won't," Scott replied. "We won't. My dad programmed in the coordinates, he said we might be a little off, but—I remember Westchester. If we need to, we walk home, but we'll get there."

He said it with so much determination, she didn't question him. After all, determination got them this far, to this horrifying, shaking place between home and home-away-from-home. They couldn't go back now. They couldn't quit. But then, neither of them was known for quitting.

She didn't know how much time had passed before she said, "When we get home, we'll see them again."

"I hope Alex is okay."

Ororo nodded. She got it. Scott wasn't ready to talk about their parents, about Ruth and Charles. Alex was easier: he had never stopped worrying about Alex.

"And Hank," she said. It was her turn to make someone smile, even if he hadn't moved to a death grip on her hand. "Do you think he's still blue?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

She started to say something else, then gasped. "Is that it?" she asked, pointing.

 _That_ was certainly something, a thing that grew bigger instead of passing as the craft around them began to slow, forcing them back in their seats.

"I think so!"

Scott wrapped his hands around the controls again. They knew this would get to be a much bumpier ride soon.

Once they punched through the clouds, the ship barely held course. Scott's knuckles turned white and sweat beaded on his forehead. Ororo, without the same experience flying, gripped the seatbelt. It was thick and viney, and she tried not to remember that it was only a plant. The proto-organics mixed plant and metal and sure, they had a good reputation, but… but.

They could make out the East Coast now.

The skyscrapers of Manhattan.

"Hold on."

Those were not encouraging words from a pilot.

They zipped over the town, over a familiar church steeple, and—

"That's it!" Ororo cried as they flew over the mansion they both once knew well.

The ship kept moving. It was slower now, Scott hauling back on a piece she was pretty sure controlled their speed, still gripping the controls that would keep the ship from veering and flipping—

_FWUMP._

The impact sent them both thumping forward, bouncing back. It was a tooth-jarring, head-smacking sort of impact that left Ororo's eyes swimming. For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

Then the ship began to crumple.

She swore and yanked at the seatbelt.

"Ororo?"

Scott stood, stumbled, and reached out to steady himself.

"Ororo, breathe through it."

She was only a step away. His hands on her weren't helping!

"You can do this."

No, she couldn't! It was too close, too small. The ceiling would come down and the space would be so tiny around them and—

Scott had to half-haul her out of her seat.

She was shaking when he ripped through the wall and led her out of the collapsing spacecraft. He only paused for half a second, scooping a book off the floor.

"It's okay. It was my mistake, I brought us down too hard, but we're safe now," he said, gripping her hand. "We're safe. We're home."

Ororo nodded.

"Well… we're almost home."

So they walked. They left the collapsing ship behind them. A special compound would dissolve it into compost, an advantage for one-way trips and a deathtrap if you weren't careful. Scott had been just careful enough.

They walked past a pair of vaguely interested cows and climbed a rusty fence to leave the pasture. Neither needed to state a direction when they reached the road.

They just walked.

After a while, Scott chuckled. "It's almost your birthday."

"My birthday?"

"Yeah, look at those gas prices," he said, indicating a station. "That's gotta be April Fool's."

"We should stop for Twinkies," Ororo suggested, her voice only a little strained and dry.

"I thought you didn't like Twinkies."

"I don't."

They were a mess, both of them, dirt and sweat on their faces, sweat marks on their clothes. Just a couple of urchins making their slow way up the road. Scott even held that book like it was a teddy bear, though she didn't think that unkindly. It was for comfort.

When they reached the mansion, the front gate was locked. Ororo picked it with a couple of hairpins. "Cake," she decreed it. "Old and pretty and an absolute piece of cake."

"Baklava," Scott shot back, closing the gate behind them.

Ororo's heart beat more and more quickly as they made their way up the long driveway. She focused on her breathing, keeping it steady. It had been so long. Now with each step she worried she would wake up and be so far away again.

The plants were overgrown. There were stretches of trees they always let grow wild, but the grass and hedges were badly neglected.

The door was locked, so Scott rang the doorbell.

"I can pick that," Ororo said.

Scott shook his head.

"It'd be a nice surprise."

Besides, she hated that door. It stood between her and her foster-mother, and she could practically feel Ruth's arms around her, hear her swearing in Hebrew. Ororo leaned to peer through the window, but couldn't see anyone inside.

Twice more Scott rang the bell.

Twice more they waited.

It was a cool day for April and that made the decision even more than manners. Both of them tensed against the weather.

"Okay," Scott said, suddenly. "You can pick the lock."

"Finally!"

Like that at the gate, this lock only took her a few moments to outdo.

The door creaked as it swung open to reveal a dimly-lit, dusty entryway. Both looked around, surprised. It hadn't looked like this, not when they lived here. This was the warm place where they pulled off snowy or muddy sneakers, where they threw polymer goo at each other from Hank's science class.

"Hello?" Scott called.

Ororo nudged him sharply.

"What?"

"I don't know. Just—don't."

The place had an eerie, abandoned quality. Even if it was already April, could all this have happened in eight months? Was it 1965, or had they jumped all the way to 1966?

Both turned at a faint noise: the familiar whisper of a wheelchair.

But not who they expected.

For a moment, the man in the wheelchair just stared at them. And Ororo and Scott stared at the man who had to be at least sixty, old and bald and clutching a mostly-empty bottle of whiskey.

"Um…" Scott said, instinctively nudging Ororo back. "Okay. We are really, really sorry—we made a mistake, and we're leaving now."

"You're not real," the man informed them.

"No—no, we're not," Ororo agreed. Scott shot her a _look_ , but she continued, "You've had too much to drink. You should go to bed… and think about drinking less."

"We used to live here," Scott explained, and it was Ororo's turn to shoot someone a _look_.

"You died," said the drunk.

"The man who used to live here," Ororo began, since Scott insisted on explaining, "Charles Xavier. We knew him."

The drunk laughed. "Of course you did."

"Oh God," Scott whispered.

"What?" Ororo whispered back. They weren't exactly keeping secrets, but the drunk man was distracted by the bottle in his hand.

"It's not 1964."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"I think this is Professor Xavier."

Yeah.

Just one of those days.


	2. 1985

Ororo found herself alone and made her way into the kitchen. It wasn't the same anymore. It looked the same, but it didn't smell like honey or dry-roasted spices. The basil plant in the window was gone, probably long dead.

There were too many empty bottles.

She hesitated, then grabbed a paper bag. Maybe she should just throw them out. Maybe Scott would want to start his recycling project…

So Ororo gathered the recyclables and left the bag by the garbage bin. Some of the beers were in metal cans, which was new. She checked the cupboards and the fridge. Scott's Oreos would have to wait. As for Ororo, she wasn't fussed about Oreos, but she was hoping for _something_ to eat.

She picked up an address book and leafed through it. They used to keep takeout menus here, but gone were the papers with black-and-white photos of pizza or English words beside Chinese symbols. The book was instead full of inked-in names she didn't know—except one.

Ororo's eyes widened. She went back a few pages, grinning.

Then she grabbed the telephone and punched in ten digits.

At the other end, the phone rang three times before a weary, concerned voice said, "Hello, Charles."

 _Charles?_ How had he known who was calling?

Ororo decided that rather than asking, she might as well get some information. It was one thing to see the mansion looking so dreary and gutted, and Charles so old and drunk. She could accept that this was how things were.

She remembered something else, though. She remembered a far more respectable man. She remembered Ruth, Alex, and Hank. She remembered…

Sean, and it hit like a punch to the heart.

"No," she said, "this is the neighbor. Um, Charles seems to have been drinking—"

Hank sighed heavily. "Not again. How bad is it?"

"Bad," Ororo replied. She didn't know what the levels of 'bad' were in this context, only that this was… well, _bad_. He had vomited on himself before Scott helped him out of the room.

"All right. Thank you for calling. I can come by tonight."

Tonight? Well, that was an unexpected bonus.

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

Hank hung up first.

Ororo set about cleaning up. A wet sponge took care of some of the sticky circles left under the bottles, but there were more circles staining the counters. This had been going on for some time.

While she cleaned, she remembered what happened in the spaceship. She remembered the panic she felt and the way Scott had to help her out of the ship—and she scrubbed harder, angry that she had needed help.

After taking care of the worst mess, she left the wet sponge in the sink and headed into the sitting room. _That_ was a surprise! The classic-style furniture was replaced with new, modern stuff. There was a television, too, but it was about five times the size of the one Charles used to have.

She considered watching for a while, but couldn't find the knobs on the TV.

Her old bedroom was there, but the closet was empty and the bed was bare, hidden under a large sheet. The ghost of a bed. Her pillows were gone, her library copy of _Kon-Tiki_ , the diary she never admitted to keeping.

She half expected to find Scott's room preserved. Charles had always liked him better. He never said and he never needed to, Ororo just knew. But Scott's room was like Ororo's. No more books. No clothes (or candy bars) in the dresser.

She made her way back to the couch and wriggled the shoes off her feet. Might as well make herself comfortable.

Scott joined her a while later, when the sunlight grew long through the window. He sighed and slumped onto the couch beside her.

Ororo let her head loll onto Scott's shoulder.

"We came close enough," she said, "but I'm so, so tired right now."

"It's still you and me," Scott replied.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

No answer.

"No."

"There's no food."

Scott nodded.

"I mean, there's like… six kinds of mustard… sour milk… something that I think used to be bread…"

"I think he's been drinking his dinner," Scott said. Then he sighed and buried his face in his hands.

"What year do you think it is?" Ororo asked.

"I don't know. 1985, maybe?"

"Why 1985?"

"Because how much worse than twenty years off could we be?"

Ororo thought about that. The only measures they had were the price of gas—she didn't know what it was supposed to be—and the Professor. He was a lot older. He sure looked like he could be fifty now.

"Chris said…"

"I know."

For so long, they talked about going home. It was always the plan. Chris had warned them that more time had probably passed, that it was like that, the farther you went and other things he didn't fully understand and could not sufficiently explain.

"Do you think it's April?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe."

She didn't think she wanted a birthday, even if it was April. Her birthday had been made up, anyway, and how old was she supposed to be now?

"Where's Professor Xavier?" She couldn't bring herself to call him anything else. Not Dad, but then, she had never called him that. She couldn't call him Charles, he was too different from Charles. From who he was.

"In bed. He's out cold. I rinsed his sweater but I don't know, I think you're supposed to dry clean that stuff and… I don't know. I guess it's… it'll be an adjustment."

Neither of them knew what to do or had anyplace else to be. They tossed around the thought of heading into town to find out if the old pizza places were still open, but as they didn't have any money, that seemed pointless.

So they sat on the couch for a while, lost in thought until the doorbell rang.


	3. Robots and Laser Swords

Hank stared for a moment. Then he burst out laughing.

He was furry and blue, just as he had been the last time he saw Ororo, though he had filled out since. He was no longer so scrawny. Still, with his strength as it always had been, she wasn't surprised when the ground disappeared.

"I knew you'd come back," Hank said.

Ororo, currently caught in a very furry hug, wasn't immediately able to answer.

When Hank set her down again, she said, "It's good to see you, too, Hank."

She hadn't expected him to remember her. It had only been six months to Ororo, but to Hank it had been decades. She realized she had assumed he would have left the past in the past.

"Is Scott with you?"

"He's in the next room," Ororo said, indicating.

"And I assume Charles is… incapacitated."

She frowned in confusion. "Isn't that…?"

"Decapitated," Scott supplied. He stood in the doorway. "You're thinking of decapitated. He's, uh, asleep. Hi, Hank."

"That's an understatement," Hank said.

"Asleep?"

" _Hi_. It's been years."

"We know."

Hank had no trouble taking charge of the situation, something Ororo and Scott were immensely grateful for. Neither of them knew what to do. They had been so focused on getting home, they hadn't looked beyond that.

"Presumably he doesn't have any food in the house," Hank said, and Ororo nodded to confirm it. "If I remember correctly, you like pizza and you like Chinese—"

"I'm happy with pizza," Scott said.

Ororo rolled her eyes. "Look how much he's changed, Hank."

"Look how much _you_ 've changed," Scott retorted.

Hank sighed, shook his head, and found two menus in the kitchen, an arrangement that had everyone happy. (Except the delivery time, which pleased no one but had been expected.)

After calls had been placed to both the pizza place and Chinese restaurant, Ororo said, "I looked in on our old rooms. Everything's covered up but we could probably still use them, right?"

Hank shook his head. "You could, technically, yes, but you might be far more comfortable elsewhere. Mattresses have a shelf life and a decade after you left, yours were far past their expiry date. He keeps a couple of guest bedrooms. Things have changed quite a bit since you left."

Ororo nodded—she had gathered as much. But she glanced at Scott. He didn't always take these things so well. This time he reacted like she did, nodding and accepting it.

The sheets hadn't been moved, so Ororo and Scott knew which way to go. She never had adapted to calling them "linens", which was far too posh, not to mention inaccurate. Most of the sheets were cotton, not linen.

"If you'd like me to stay," Hank began.

He didn't need to go further.

"We would," Ororo said.

Scott glanced at her and raised his eyebrows. Understanding the question, she nodded.

"We can share a room."

Hank hesitated. "Are you two, ah… romantically entangled to one another?"

The phrasing was too much for Ororo. She bit down on her lip and looked at the floor to keep from laughing out loud. Too late she realized the averted gaze coupled with her amused blush suggested something entirely different.

Luckily, Scott fielded this one: "You know it's not like that, Hank. It's been a long trip. That's all."

And it had.

They had seen star systems they hadn't even known existed, so many cultures and species. Suddenly it didn't matter so much what someone looked like or where they were from. Not to mention the fact that they were family, which was even better than being of the same species.

So they made up the beds in the spare rooms—or rather, Scott did, while Ororo sat on the dresser. She knew he didn't need or want her help with this.

"Still," she said, "is it _so_ impossible you and I could be 'romantically entangled'?"

Scott looked at her quizzically, then went back to stuffing a duvet into its cover.

"Ororo, you're my sister. And even if you weren't, I'm not your type."

She huffed, but didn't argue.

"You could do something with the pillows if you wanted to be useful."

She hopped off the dresser and started putting a pillow in its case.

"Other way."

"Huh?"

"The tags go against the inside seam of the pillowcase."

"It's weird that you know that."

"No, it isn't."

"No, it isn't," Ororo agreed, because now that he mentioned it, that was the sort of thing Scott would know. So she crammed the pillow into its case with the tag-end in first. Getting the pillows un-bunched took her long enough that Scott had the covers done and the mattress covered.

She poked the mattress. The sheet dimpled under her fingertip.

"You used to be able to make your bed so a nickel bounced off it," she said.

"I know. These sheets are… new."

"Fitted," Hank supplied, appearing in the doorway. "They've become very popular. Pizza's here, if you're hungry."

Hah. 'If'!

Ororo glowered at Scott when he grabbed a slice of pizza.

"Were you not intending to have any of the Chinese, then?" he retorted.

She paused and debated sticking out her tongue, but decided putting pizza in her mouth was more important. It had been far too long since the last time she ate and her stomach had been trying to fold in on itself.

"I think I could eat this entire pizza by myself," she said between bites.

Ten minutes later, over pepperoni and wontons, they traded questions with Hank.

Scott picked first: "Is Charles… okay?"

"He drinks a lot," Hank said. "It's been that way, on and off, but he's had sober periods—for years sometime."

"What about Ruth?" Ororo asked.

"She went back to Israel, to work with Mossad. When you were in space, were there laser swords?"

Ororo and Scott glanced at each other, then back to Hank.

"Not that I recall," Scott replied.

"Why?" Ororo wondered.

"It's a common theme in speculation about other galaxies. Robots?"

"Raza and Sikorsky," Ororo said.

"Raza's not a robot," Scott said. "He has bionic limbs, that's different. He's a man."

"Okay, but Sikorsky," she insisted. "He was kind of a part of the ship, but he was also like a metal bug. You'd say something mouthy and hear him whirring, then he didn't know what to say. He didn't understand jokes."

They went back and forth for a while, until Ororo couldn't keep her head up anymore. She yawned and rubbed her eyes.

"You're definitely staying, right?" she asked.

Hank nodded. "I'll stay through the weekend, then I have to get back to work. I won't be far. With you two back, though, Charles will be back on his..."

"Ass?"

"I missed you, too, Ororo," Hank said. "We'll take care of some things tomorrow. Groceries, clothes, things like that."

"No one wears flares," she teased.

At his side, where Hank wouldn't see, Scott flipped Ororo the bird.

She grinned and headed for the bedroom. She rested her head on a pillow that had been properly put in its case with the tags toward the inside seam, but didn't stayed awake until Scott joined her. He moved so carefully in the dark, like he really thought she was asleep.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Scott, are we staying here?" Ororo asked. It was Charles's home, after all. And Charles hadn't been thrilled to see them.

He pulled her close and she felt that they both needed it.

"Wherever we go, we'll stay together. You and me. I promise."


	4. Cold Pizza

The next morning, Ororo slipped out of bed. She padded to the closet and slipped her dress off the hanger. Ruth would have approved of that… something that made Ororo bite her lip as she did up the buttons. She missed Ruth.

Leaving Scott asleep, she padded out of the room.

The house didn't feel terribly different at this time of day. It had always been sprawling and empty when she walked through it alone.

As she approached the kitchen, she heard the television going in the next room. She hesitated. It sounded like maybe a news program.

She grabbed a slice of cold pizza and went to stand in the doorway to the sitting room. Hank was watching TV; Charles was probably still out. He _had_ been drunk enough to puke on himself.

The newscaster was in full color. (Well, mostly pink, with gray hair, but that wasn't the point!) As Ororo watched, she noticed that he was more demonstrative than most newscasters.

_Kind of a cute story: this week I'm lyin' in my backyard, sittin' in my hammock next to a keg of Schlitz Ice, got a, uh, Cheetos beard, y'know, with just a hint of that cheese dust down my happy trail—_

Well, newscasters had certainly changed since 1963!

_—and I'm flipping through the latest issue of the Pentagon's Joint Forces Quarterly Magazine. Y'know—it's a Sunday! So, I stumble upon this article about gays in the military that says, quote, "There is no scientific evidence to support the claim that unit cohesion will be negatively affected if homosexuals served openly."_

_And then I remember—what, wait. Gay people aren't allowed to serve in the military? I remember when our current President was running for office, he was pretty clear about one thing._

The news cut to a clip of a politician talking about a policy Ororo wasn't familiar with. She wasn't really listening.

She sat on the couch beside Hank. "So it's not 1985," she said.

"No," Hank said.

"And that's the President."

"Yes."

"Of the United States."

"His main opponent in the primaries was a woman. And the Speaker of the House is a woman."

"Was she his opponent?"

"His opponent was a senator."

"And they swear on the news now?"

"No, no, this is a comedy program."

Ororo nodded. She bounced on the cushion and watched the show with Hank for a while. They talked more about that policy, don’t-ask-don’t-tell, then dissolved into a really strange ramble about people’s eating habits on cruises. But the comedian was energetic and likable, and although Ororo did not completely understand the jokes she found herself smiling.

Hank waited until the commercial to ask, "Ororo, it doesn't bother you, how long you've been gone?"

She shook her head. "I'm a little surprised. Scott's not going to take it well."

"I had hoped Charles could help break the news."

"I think we'll need to make do without Charles."

Hank looked away and took a deep breath. Maybe she shouldn't have said that. She only meant it matter-of-factly: from what Ororo had seen, they shouldn't rely on Charles. He was struggling.

Yes, that seemed like a good euphemism.

"Scott's grown up a lot," she offered. "Maybe he'll be okay."

They didn't have to wait long to find out. Ororo and Hank watched through the end of his comedy show, which he explained was from the previous year, then another episode where the host spoke to the Speaker of the House. Ororo was riveted. This was the new world, the one she had fallen into. And that was just the color, swearing, and rude jokes on TV!

By the time the show was over, she heard Scott moving around and glanced at Hank. Should they tell him…? Hank nodded. "We'll get it over with early," he said. "We have a lot to do today."

Hank headed to the kitchen. Scott, like Ororo, had opted for cold pizza for breakfast. It really was the best option.

"Good morning, Hank."

"Good morning. Do you want to sit down?"

Scott hesitated and gave Hank an uncertain look, but it was clearly what Hank wanted him to do. He sat.

Ororo stayed in the doorway, observing. She watched the way Scott's face crumpled when he heard the news. His lip disappeared under his teeth. Although she couldn't see his eyes, she knew he was staring at the tabletop.

He took a deep breath. Ororo shifted her weight, ready to move. Scott was teetering now. If he handled it well, she would stay here. Otherwise… well, they made it through the universe together. What was a few years?

"2010," Scott repeated.

Hank nodded. "Yes."

"Not 1985."

"No."

"So that's…"

"Forty-six years," Ororo supplied. Math had never been Scott's strongest suit.

"Yes," Hank confirmed.

Scott took another breath like it was the only thing he understood anymore. "That's a really long time, Hank."

"It is. Are you okay?"

"Yes. Sure. I mean—I have to be, right? It's—we can't turn back time, so, um…"

Ororo heard the catch in his voice. No, he wasn't okay.

Scott's head snapped up. "Anyway," he said, "don't we have things to do today?" He picked up his plate and went to wash it. There weren't enough dishes, really…

"We do," Hank agreed.

"Could you give us a minute?" Ororo asked. "We'll meet you outside?"

Hank looked between the two of them, then nodded. "Yes, of course."

Ororo waited until she heard the door close. Then she walked over to Scott. He hadn't moved from the sink. She knew that posture, knew he was twisting himself up and that was the problem. Scott twisted himself until he was ready to snap.

His hand was on the counter, palm against the countertop, twitching.

She waited for a twitch then slipped her hand into his. "Scott. Hey."

"It's fine," he said, "I'm fine."

Plausible!

Nothing Ororo said could make it better. She didn't know what was going on in his head. He was upset, but this was more than just the time lapse.

Which, like he had said, they couldn't undo.

"Whatever happens, it's me and you together," she murmured.

Scott sniffled and swiped at his cheek, then nodded.

"Now let's go get some new clothes, 'cause flares were square in 1963."

"Flares were groovy," he retorted, starting for the door.

Ororo followed, rolling her eyes. "Flares were _always_ square."

Scott held the door for her.

"Hey Hank," he called, pulling the door shut behind them, "settle an argument? Were flares groovy or square?"

Hank gave Scott another one of those long, unreadable looks like he was weighing every word in his expanse of a vocabulary.

"Back in the sixties?" Hank asked.

"Yeah."

"Back in the sixties they were groovetacular."


	5. Tell me I have a home

Water whooshed into the sink, sending a pillar of steam toward the ceiling. To Ororo, it looked like destruction. Like the smoke that floated out of the old factory where she had lived in Cairo on the day it burned… so many, many lifetimes ago.

Then again, there had been no furry blue friends in Cairo. No neurotic foster-brothers to look after.  
   
“Some of them broke,” Scott observed, worried.  
  
Hank peered over his shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”  
  
Scott poked at something in the sink.  
  
“Nothing to worry about,” Hank assured him. “The recipe says to rinse them in cold water.”  
  
Scott turned the tap on and the last few gasps of steam dispersed, the heat wetted down. Ororo sat at the kitchen table, very aware that she would be no help here. She didn’t know the first thing about cooking pasta.  
  
Although now she thought about it, neither did Scott…  
  
They had both modernized, clothing-wise, but the clothes hadn’t changed them. So she had traded in her dress for jeans and t-shirts. It still surprised her how normal that was. They were the same time-loose kids. She could not help noticing that while girls' clothes had become more boyish, pants way more acceptable, boys' clothes were not that different. They were sloppier, but of course Scott hadn't been interested in pre-torn jeans. (Nor was Ororo, for that matter. She had been homeless; it was not chic.)

She wasn’t really paying attention to the discussion of pasta. She was paying attention to Scott. He always moved the same when he was learning something new, with that sort of diagonal shuffle-step-motion.  
  
She chewed her lip.  
  
_Your dad wouldn’t like that, Scott._  
  
Chris, for his part—Chris had tried to build him up some. He had tried to be a good dad, eventually. But he was in the past.  
  
“What are we up to here?”  
  
Speaking of dads.  
  
“Hey, Professor.”  
  
“Hello, Ororo.”  
  
“Charles,” Hank said, “it’s been a while.”  
  
Charles did not look drunk anymore, or hungover. It felt like so long since they arrived, but now that Ororo thought about it, they had crashed just yesterday. The ship would be utterly degraded by now, unrecognizable, but they were still here.  
  
He had aged, though. Charles Xavier was an old man.  
  
Of course he was. They had been gone forty-six years.   
  
“It has,” he agreed. “Thank you for coming, Hank.”  
  
“Wouldn’t miss it.”  
  
“Hank filled us in on some of the new stuff,” Ororo offered. “The Cold War ended,” she began, ticking things off on her fingers, “the President’s black, though there’s not yet been a woman as President; Hank’s phone plays the Beatles; and soda comes in metal cans. That’s basically everything from the last forty-six years, right?”  
  
Charles smiled. There was tension in his face, but her joke hadn’t been wholly unappreciated. “Just about,” he agreed. “You have the Beatles on your phone, Hank? I didn’t think you cared for new ring sounds.”  
  
“It’s also an mp3 player,” Hank said. “They’re very convenient gadgets, though we haven’t quite broached the subject of computers yet.”  
  
“What are computers?” Ororo asked.   
  
“They’re… complicated,” Charles said.  
  
“Is it math? Something that computes, it sounds like math.”  
  
“They can be used for math,” Hank volunteered. “Especially with the TIs.”  
  
“What else would you use a TI for?” Charles asked.  
  
“Science.”  
  
Ororo had no idea what any of this was about. TIs, computers, those were things that could surely wait until tomorrow. She was ostensibly paying attention, but again she was really watching Scott. He had become very focused on cooking. Apparently putting together lasagna took a lot of focus. It didn’t look like it did.  
  
“Not to be indelicate,” Ororo ventured when there was an appropriate gap in the conversation, “but someone needed to say it. Can we still live here?”  
  
Charles looked surprised and she heard it in his voice when he answered her. “Yes, of course you can.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
It struck her as deeply wrong. Everything she and Scott had been through over the years and they were still kids. They still needed someone to take responsibility for them, even though they could take care of themselves. Even though they came from another galaxy and across forty-six years and barely aged a day.  
  
“It’s a little more complicated these days,” Charles continued, “there’s far more oversight, but it’s simply a matter of paperwork. You don’t need to worry.”  
  
“I am worried,” Ororo replied. “Don’t—please don’t do that. We’ve lost two homes in six months, and we really deserve double points for this one, _don’t_ tell me not to worry. Tell me I have a home.”  
  
She didn’t know what the last forty-six years had been for Charles, but while she knew it had been too long, that was nothing compared to how brief the time had been for them. There had been homes, planets, the ship, their time off-ship. People and places she couldn’t imagine and yes, they were wonderful, but shipboard life had never been for her.  
  
No, she wanted the ground under her feet and good air in her lungs. Instead everything shipboard was all tumbled. Constantly.  
  
The way Charles regarded her then and the shift in his expression were reassuring. He had actually heard.  
  
“You have a home.”  
  
She nodded once. “Thank you.”  
  
“Would you like to discuss what the next few weeks are going to look like?”  
  
“Sure. I’d also like to know what month it is.”  
  
“It’s April.”  
  
Ororo nodded. She still felt that dizziness. The ground kept turning.  
  
“As you’re still a minor—I know,” Charles said, apparently seeing Ororo’s indignation, “but you are under eighteen, are you not?”  
  
She admitted that she was.  
  
“We’ll have to consider options for your education. You could go to school in town if you wanted, or we can look into home school options. I feel it would be best to keep you home for a while, possibly to study for an equivalency test and go on to the community college. Think about your options before making any decisions.”  
  
None of that sounded unreasonable to Ororo. She did not want to go to school in town. Her interactions with townies had usually been negative. Charles made it clear that she could choose to do otherwise, however.  
  
Ororo liked this. She felt like it was linear. Yes, it was linear with branches, but nonetheless linear.  
  
Town or no town.  
  
Home school or equivalency test.  
  
Community college or, presumably, work.  
  
“Scott,” Charles said.  
  
Scott stilled, then returned to putting together the lasagna. “I’m almost finished.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
Ororo looked from Scott to Charles. She hesitated, fingers on the edge of the table. She wanted to go to Scott. How long had they kept each other from falling apart?  
  
She had hated that ship. Scott had been there when she needed him, but he did it in private. He had distracted her and soothed her as much as she would be soothed, held her at night when she crawled into bed beside him because they were both too scared to be separated. She didn’t like people seeing her vulnerable. Just because Scott didn’t hide it as well didn’t mean he wanted a spotlight.  
  
“Hank was saying he’s a professor now, too,” she volunteered. “I know this is really personal, Hank, but is it strange for them that you’re… another color?”  
  
Hank didn’t answer for a moment. Then he slowly joined them at the table.  
  
“I look different,” he said, “which makes me highly visible. That’s a fact I’ve learned to live with. My behavior is beyond reproach, not even jaywalking. It’s not fair, but it is necessary. Meanwhile I excel in my field.”  
  
“So you’re…” Ororo tried to find the right words.  
  
“I am, very publicly, a mutant,” Hank supplied. “But I am also a good person, equally publicly. It is a significant injustice, but one I try to use to my advantage.”  
  
The oven door squeaked when it opened. Scott set the dish down noisily. When he started collecting the dishes, Ororo dropped her gaze. He really needed to learn to cope…  
  
“Scott,” Charles said.  
  
“Everything’s a mess,” Scott observed.  
  
“Scott, wash your hands and come sit down at the table.”  
  
Scott did.  
  
“The next few weeks are going to be challenging. I want to be clear here and now. You will always have a home here. All of you—I realize it’s no longer necessary, Hank, but nonetheless.” He clearly meant Ororo and Scott as he continued, “We can talk about the process of having you both put into foster care. You’ll know every step. This is necessary, but you will not be taken away.”  
  
Ororo nodded. “I—we understand,” she said. “You’ve never let us down.”  
  
This was what they had wanted. When they talked about coming home, they meant the mansion. They meant Charles.

But this Charles wasn’t their Charles.  
  
Ororo had overheard Hank and Scott talking earlier that day and knew that Alex, too, had felt the sting of those forty-six years. The plan was to contact him tomorrow. For the first time, Ororo was glad she didn’t have a sibling from (shortly after) birth.  
  
It didn’t matter if the house was the house. Houses weren’t homes. People were homes.  
  
First time she had felt relieved that she learned early how homes could go. The first two crumbled to the ground, one of them right on top of her. Life taught Ororo early that anything could be taken.  
  
Charles took a deep breath. “I have let you down,” he said, responding to Ororo’s comment, but looking at Scott. Scott kept his head down. “Yesterday.”  
  
“That was… awkward,” Ororo admitted. She knew it wasn’t for her, but Scott wasn’t answering. “It’s okay.”  
  
Hank flinched—“Ow!”  
  
“Sorry,” Ororo said. She had kicked him under the table. “That was supposed to be Scott.”  
  
Scott and Charles both looked at her, surprised.  
  
Ororo raised her eyebrows. “I said I was sorry.”  
  
For a moment, she thought she might be in trouble. That was strange. It wasn’t about being rude back on the ship, it was about insubordination, and both of them got away with a lot of lip. Charles was more like a dad; Chris was a captain.  
  
Then Hank burst out laughing.  
  
“Oh, Ororo,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”


	6. P.S.

  
Dear Charles,  
  
Two days ago, when we came home, you were drunk. I don’t think that was the first time or that this is a rare occurrence, ether.  
  
Then last night you apologized for it. I didn’t know how to say it then, so I’m writing it now. Maybe I’ll show you this letter. I don’t know that yet.  
  
We were scared.  
  
We thought we were coming home. It was only six months for us, but the whole time, we wanted to be home. When we got here and we saw the person you have become—you look different, that’s all. We didn’t know you were you. We thought you were a stranger.   
  
Without you, we were lost. We needed you, Charles. Of course we were scared when we thought we lost you.   
  
It isn’t your fault.  
  
When we realized you were you, that you were Charles Xavier, that was different.  
  
I learned a lot in my time with the Starjammers. It was brief but very educational. Chris Summers isn’t a bad man, something that might need explaining, but he really isn’t. Not once you get to know him. We traveled to new planets and met loads of aliens (which are real by the way).  
  
We’re home now that we’re with you. It’s going to take some getting used to again. I think we both imagined you, Alex, and Mom would be here. We thought Hank would be here, too, but Hank doesn’t feel like he’s changed. Hank is still Hank.  
  
The point is, it’ll take time for us to adjust. But everything will be okay, because we’re back where we belong.  
  
But the other point is that you and Chris are very different men. You took care of our minds. Chris protected us and kept us safe, I want you to know that, we weren’t in a lot of physical danger. I saw the way you looked at us, though. You have the same question as Hank. Chris asked, too.  
  
No.  
  
We’re not.  
  
We lost the whole world. Everything. And both of us had lost that before, and there was no one else. Nothing else. Nothing. Not land, not food, not plants, not customs, not another person or weather pattern.  
  
Why don’t you understand? You should. I see how the past years affected you. It was less time for us, yes. But isn’t it possible the years affected us, too?  
  
Love from,  
1964  
  
P.S. I also want to know when you got prudish. You and Ruth had sex. I know you did.  
  
  



	7. Ditch Weed

Annie sat in her room, curling her toes on the carpet and thinking about how much life sucked. Music pounded out of her headphones, trying to drown the overwhelming awareness of that suck.

She wasn't goth, by the way. Yeah, she dyed most of her hair black, a few neon streaks. Maybe sometimes a person just felt like it. The roots were showing, too. Blond. Obvious.

Shit.

Rocking her head to the music, she pulled a baggie out of her desk drawer and a box of rolling papers. It was Sunday, not like she had anything to do. Review her homework, maybe. Or this. Her mom was working. Stuck-up preppies were playing some dumbass game outside which would make it more annoying to blow smoke out the window.

"Annie?"

She startled, yanking her headphones off and shoving her supplies back in the drawer.

"What the hell, Grandpa? Don't you knock?"

"I did knock. You play your music too loud. I need you to come downstairs and help me with the computer."

"I told you, it's called 'wireless' but you still need to plug in the router."

Her grandpa sighed. "Annie."

"Yeah, yeah," she said.

"What are you hiding there?"

"Nothing. Tampons."

"The computer?"

She nodded, left the headphones on the desk, and started downstairs. Annie's life sucked and most of the people in it sucked, too, and she was supposed to be respectful and more grateful and yeah, she got that.

She did respect him. She was just mad.

The computer was in the living room (which made AIM awkward as hell). It was an old PC that still had the version of solitaire where, when you won, the cards bounced one by one over the screen. She jiggled the mouse—sometimes a new screensaver was enough to confuse her grandpa.

"Okay, what's the problem?"

"I want to install this program." He indicated Internet Explorer, the window open.

"Skype? Um, that's for like, video chat."

"I want it for video chat."

"Okay. So you know that pop-up blocker we installed to take care of all those viruses and stuff? It's stopping you from downloading the exe file. It's good news," she added, glancing over her shoulder. "It's working. One-time exception, okay, there we go. It's downloading."

Really it was a fairly simple process. She had known how to download programs since she was a kid, product of the digital age.

"Yeah, this is super simple. Um, you know you don't have a camera, right?"

"Of course I have a camera."

For a moment, Annie just stared at her grandpa. "That's not… um… okay… we need a hardware upgrade here, Gramps."

They went to Best Buy, Annie too so she could show her technologically confused grandfather the difference between a digital camera and his 35mm Nikon. While they were waiting in line, Annie eying the snacks she could probably slip in, she asked, "Who are you Skyping, anyway? I mean, did one of your war buddies go to Best Buy with his granddaughter, too?"

"Maybe one of my war buddies' granddaughters also wanted the salt and vinegar Pringles to deal with munchies from her ditch weed."

Her grandpa grabbed a tin of chips as he stepped up to the register, leaving Annie open-mouthed. Only after he had paid did she hurry after him.

"Wait up—I don't—and it is not ditch weed!" she said, pulling her sweater closer as they stepped out into the parking lot. "And how would you know, anyway?"

"How old do you think I am?"

"Ummm… fifty?"

He laughed. "Kid, I was blowing skunk out my window before your mom was even dreamed up. You're smoking ditch weed."

He unlocked the car, slid into the driver's seat and deposited the bag in the back.

Annie took the passenger seat. "You're not gonna yell at me?"

"Nope."

"Tell Mom?"

"Your mom doesn't need this right now, Annie."

Annie scoffed. She knew that. She was just tired of hearing it.

"You need more volunteer hours, right?"

"Well… yeah."

"Great. You can come to my meetings. Put away the chairs and it can count for volunteering."

"Are you kidding me? AA? I'm not an alcoholic! I don't even drink!" That much…

"Me or your mom, Annie." He parked in the driveway. It hadn't been such a nice neighborhood when he moved in. It had been okay, tract housing. Space for kids.

She hadn't made a choice by the time they headed inside. Instead she started installing his new digital camera.

"Just promise me this isn't for, like, eHarmony, because Grandma's at her church group and that would be messed up."

"eHarmony?"

"Um, never mind."

"I'm calling Uncle Charles."

"Ugh—first of all, that creepy guy is not my uncle."

"He's not creepy."

"Second, he's even older than you, does he know how to use Skype?"

"Hank's helping him."

"Hank's old, too."

"Hank's brilliant."

"Well, anyway, it's working now."

She opened Skype and logged into her grandpa's account.

"Okay, so… what's Uncle Charles's screenname?" Annie asked, turning around again. It wasn't polite, not looking at someone when you talked to them, and there was being angry and being raised without any manners.

Her grandpa blinked at her. "Screenname?"

In the end, her grandpa was on the phone with Hank while Annie sat at the computer, trying to translate grandparent-garbled tech-ese. Eventually she managed to find Charles's account.

She was putting the call through as she wondered, "So, what's so special that you couldn't do this over a normal call?"

"Oh my God." It was a tinny voice, a staticky answer through the speakers.

The call had been answered by a boy maybe a couple of years older than she was. She noticed the unmistakable blue figure in the background, of course. But front and center was a boy with dark hair and red glasses.

"Alex?" The boy leaned closer to the screen, putting him at an odd angle to his own camera. "Alex, are you there? Who is that?"

Annie turned.

He looked absolutely stunned, more so than she had ever seen. Tears skated down his cheeks and he didn't seem to care.

"What's going on?" Annie asked. "C'mon, you're freaking me out here."

Her grandpa patted her shoulder. "This is my granddaughter," he told the camera, "Annie. Annie, that's your Uncle Scott."

"Okay, you can't just make everyone my uncle. Seriously."

"No," he said, "you don't understand. This is my brother."

"Alex… you grew up."

Annie stepped aside, letting Alex sit in front of the screen. He was Alex now. He wasn't her grandpa anymore. Scott predated all of that, and seeing him brought Alex back to who he had been then.

For a while, neither he nor Scott could manage a complete sentence. They looked happy, in a sad way: happy to see each other after so many years, but you couldn't have that happiness without the years, could you?

Hank similarly excused himself: Skype was up and running, they needed privacy.

"Are you happy?" Scott asked.

"Yes."

"You got married."

"People do that when they fall in love. How long have you been home? I spoke to Charles a few weeks ago, he didn't mention anything."

"No, just a day. We didn't know how much time we had missed. It was—"

"You have to lean back," Alex interrupted. "I can't see you when you lean in like that. You can't go through the computer. Better. Okay, I know what you were gonna ask. I re-enlisted after you left. Honorably discharged this time. Graduated from college. I did all the good nerd stuff."

"Still calling me a nerd, huh."

"We're both nerds."

Scott smiled. "I missed you, Alex. I know it wasn't so long, but…"

"That's okay. I missed you, too, and I had forty years of learning to live with that. Still, I wish you could have been here. My wife—you should have met her when she was young, she had the sweetest, perkiest—"

The objection came from the computer and the doorway at once:

"Alex!"/"Grandpa!"

Alex laughed like he was a young man again. "—personality!" He just managed, "That'll teach you to snoop!"


	8. Glorified File Storage

Sunday passed quickly.

Ororo had spent most of it on Hank's computer, learning about the GED, the test she was meant to be studying for. She had assumed it would be easy, but the practice questions knocked her down a few pegs. Instead of spending the afternoon gloating, she spent it making an e-mail account (Hank helped) and signing up for a website he said could teach her math.

Between tackling math challenges (and not-so-challenges, like the early level counting exercises!), she asked Charles about the past decades.

"Are you still a professor?"

"Not exactly," Charles admitted. "I've done plenty of teaching, but no, I'm currently… well, when I work more regularly, it's as a psychologist. The past couple of years have been difficult."

Ororo chose not to remark upon that last bit. He looked almost ashamed when he mentioned it, obviously not a subject of choice for discussions. That was okay. Instead, she wondered, "What's a psychologist?"

"It means people come to me when they need to talk things through. I help them understand how they think and make the changes they need to make."

She considered that for a while, then smiled. "That's a good job for you."

"Thank you."

"You still talk to Ruth?"

"Sometimes. We've been able to remain friends. Ruth is very dedicated to her work, it's not always possible to speak with her. She'll be back soon enough. Her powers seem to have given her more strength later in life than most people."

That made sense. Part of Ruth's abilities had always been a heightened vitality. Ororo used to think it was just something special in Ruth's personality that made her seem more alive. She supposed both could possibly be true.

"You don't seem that old, either," she said. "You seem _older_ , but not as old as you should be."

"There was a time, in the sixties and early seventies, that Hank had made a serum designed to suppress mutation. It was never permanent, but it did cure my paralysis. He needed aspects of Scott's blood to make it work. The same process that slowed his aging impacted mine. Albeit not to the same extent."

Ororo had been listening with one year, scratching math into her notebook, but she paused when that settled in. They basically injected themselves with Scott's blood. That was… odd. She couldn't imagine someone doing the same with her blood, nor doing such a thing herself. Granted, she was no fan of needles, but this was stranger than just an injection.

More to the point, Hank could _cure paralysis?_

She shook her head. "How is it possible that I've been to outer space, and you can still surprise me?"

"Oh, Ororo! I can't surprise you," Charles replied. "Hank can."

* * *

 

Before, Ororo used to love dinner. It wasn't the routine and it wasn't the food (although with Ruth cooking, the food had been a bonus), it was feeling like a family. Sometimes there were up to nine of them here. It was all noise and elbows. Even after Doug and Laurie left, and even after Sean died, they still sat together, ate, and talked.

Now there was a gap between them. Scott wouldn't sit at his usual spot, which put Ororo there next to Charles, who was at the head of the table—or the foot—and opposite Hank. Not that she minded. But there were awkward quiet moments, and there was Scott not talking.

"So people know about mutants now?" Ororo asked.

"They do, though not everyone believes we exist," Hank replied.

"Even though you're blue?"

"Most people who know me know that mutation is real."

Which made sense, she had to admit. "And you absolutely have to go back tonight?"

Hank nodded. "I have a class to teach tomorrow. I'll be back next weekend. You'll need an understanding of technology to get by in today's world and we can't have Charles explaining iPods!"

"Glorified file storage," Charles replied.

"You see, you can't do that to children!" Hank cried.

"I'm not a child!" Ororo objected. "I'm sixteen!"

"You're fifteen, Ororo."

"I could be sixteen. No one knows. You have it in your power to make this happen. Think about it, Charles… I could be eighteen."

Hank and Charles both burst out laughing.

"I could!" she insisted. "What… I could!" she just kept insisting, but she was laughing, too. She knew she wasn't eighteen. Fifteen was the closest they had to an accurate guess. It didn't feel too wrong to her and she didn't mind being fifteen, but she wanted to more than that. She wanted to be an adult.

Forty-five years and all she'd done was six months! Honestly!

The conversation turned to Charles's history again, about the school. It had been open, on and off, he said, when it was called for. "But it's been difficult to maintain," he continued, "the number of mutants seems to grow and then it proves to be a blip, the numbers decrease again—and there was an incident in the 1980s, since then it's mostly been quiet."

"What about the girl?" Hank asked.

Charles shook his head. "I don't think so, Hank. Not yet."

Ororo glanced between the two of them. "Who's the girl?"

"A young mutant I've been working with," Charles explained, "but she's in a very different situation to the two of you. Any mutant struggles to accept and control their gift, but…"

"She's not an orphan," Ororo concluded, "right? It's okay," she assured him.

"Perhaps that was tactless of me," Charles offered.

Ororo shrugged. "It's true. It's okay."

Hank did leave that night, once more promising he would be back the following weekend, and saying he was so happy to see them again, and _finally_ Ororo had to all but shove him out the door or he would have missed his morning class, after all!

Which left the three of them.

Scott occupied himself with the dishes, and Ororo sure wasn't going to fight him for that task.

Instead, she decided, "I'm going to go wash my hair."

"You've already had a shower today," Scott pointed out.

Ororo rolled her eyes. "It's what girls say, Scott. It means I'm going to leave you alone for a while. Don't get into too much trouble."

She noted the baffled look on his face and managed not to roll her eyes again. She just headed for the doorway. A moment before walking away, she caught the shift as Scott realized what she was really doing. It wasn't about her hair.

She had left Scott and Charles alone to talk.


	9. Not Angry

Scott could strategize well enough if the occasion called for it. He could look at the resources at his disposal and make them equal to the challenge at hand. That was easy. It meant looking at circumstance, making reasonable predictions, understanding uses and limits.

People were more difficult to predict, which was why he simply accepted Ororo's ability to trick him.

This one was a simple trick. Scott could've just about kicked himself for not seeing it a mile off, besides it being too much even for her. He couldn't predict most people, but he didn't even know who Charles was. This was not the man they left behind. How could he be after all these years!

He didn't want to have this conversation, but as there was no avoiding it, he took a seat at the kitchen table. Ororo was like nature, not a force to trifle with. (Unless you were equal to it, and Scott couldn't stop the rain.)

"She wants us to talk," Scott explained.

Charles smiled. "Does she."

Scott just nodded. They both knew it.

"What about, do you think?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you."

"No."

Charles waited, giving Scott the opportunity to answer further. When it was clear he would not, Charles said, "Alex had two children. His daughter, Daisy, is an artist. His son was a firefighter. He passed away a few years ago."

"I met Annie."

"That one's just like her grandfather!" Charles said.

Scott wasn't surprised. His interaction with Annie had been brief, but he had seen the way Alex talked to her and the look in her face as she observed.

"If you'd rather not stay here, I know Alex will look after you."  
  
Alex had moved on and built his own family, but it had been clear to Scott that he and Alex were still brothers. Nothing, including time travel and aliens and a not-so-dead-after-all dad, could change that. Alex was family, but so was Charles.

"I want to stay here."

Anything else was unthinkable. Of course Scott wanted to keep in touch with Alex; of course Alex still mattered to him. He always would. But Alex was an adult now and Scott wanted—needed—to stay with Ororo.

Charles sighed. "You can barely stand to look at me, Scott. That's going to make for a rather complicated situation. When you arrived, I was drunk. Did that upset you?"

Scott began to shake his head. Then he paused. "A little," he admitted, "but… only a little." Adults drank. He knew that. It had bothered him because he had seen before what drinking too much did to people, and it bothered him to see Charles in that state, but he no longer panicked at the scent of alcohol.

"I'm going to ask you something I asked you once before. Do you want to live here?"

"Yes." He didn't need to think before answering.

"You're angry with me."

"I'm not."

"Scott, I know when something's bothering you."

Scott shook his head. "It's not like that."

"Why don't you tell me what it is like."

Scott looked away.

He had spent so much time in this kitchen. He was never the sort of boy who had the option of a snack and decided otherwise. The kitchen used to be Ruth's domain. Scott knew the thought of her wouldn't sit quiet in him until he had spoken to her, despite updates from Hank and Charles.

"I thought I should learn to cook," he said. "Mom… wouldn't want us all eating takeout all the time."

Charles nodded.

"Hank took us to the bookstore, so I have a cookbook, and he was telling me about… the… the internet journal things?"

"Blogs," Charles supplied.

"Yes."

"You'll have to tell Ruth when we call her. Is that it—is it Ruth's being gone?"

"No!" Scott replied quickly, surprised by the question. A little offended. "You were—Ruth was a great mom. And I loved her and I trusted her, and yes, sometimes I asked her for things instead of asking you but only because I was scared. I was a kid. I was afraid to disappoint you." And Ruth had been comforting, he couldn't deny that. He remembered how offended she had been when Scott suggested he didn't matter or that she loved him less. When Ruth loved someone, they oughtn't dare question it.

"Scott. Please. It's all right for you to be angry with me—"

"I'm not! I'm not angry with you!" Scott objected, his tone suggesting he was certainly angry about something. He shook his head and looked away. The whole time he had avoided looking at Charles; now he looked to the sink.

"It's all right."

"I'm not!"

"Scott—"

"Please don't."

"We need to have this conversation."

"No, we don't."

"Scott."

"Stop it."

"After tomorrow—"

"I'm not angry, okay?" he shouted. The room went very quiet then, full of little noises that couldn't take up enough space. The house creaked. The refrigerator hummed. The sink dripped, and he could probably fix that.

"Okay."

"I'm… I'm disappointed.” The words were heavy, like they hurt to say. (They did.) “My whole life, people have left me behind. My parents—I know they couldn't help it, I know that, but they did. And I didn't want Alex staying in the orphanage. All those days when prospective parents would come to the orphanage and no one chose me. Even Mr. Milbury got sick of me eventually."

"Scott—"

"No, please let me finish. I've always been left behind. So I know how much it hurts. And I…" His voice cracked over the words: "I did that to you. I keep thinking back to that day. I never should have got into the ship, I never should have… but I did it. I left you behind. I'm not angry with you, I'm ashamed of myself."

Charles took a breath to speak, but Scott was faster.

"Don't tell me I didn't. So seeing you like that, and it—it was my fault."

"I've done some… very foolish things. And even knowing they're foolish, I continue to do them. That's my fault, not yours."

"The whole time," Scott said, "I wanted to come home. We tried to get home. I don't want to leave, not even to go stay with Alex, but it's going to be tough for a while. The thing is, I know this is the best place for me. I did make my peace with Chris, but the truth is that everything in my life I ever made better, I was able to do because of you. But I abandoned someone who… who cared about me. That's not the sort of man I want to be."

Charles shook his head. "You had a good reason."

But Scott wasn't hearing it. He couldn't.

In the past year, or back in 1964, he had worked hard on reconciling the difference between his view of the world and the world as it was. He had worked on breaking out of those repetitive thoughts he so easily fell into and his willingness to take responsibility for all ills.

It was never perfect, though, was it? The damage never really went away.

He had a good reason for abandoning Charles.

As Scott pointed out: "So did Chris."

“I don’t blame you. If you need to hear it, I forgive you. You must understand, I’m not unhappy. I have made some less than admirable choices in the last forty years, but overall, I am proud of the life I’ve led.”

“You were really drunk.”

“Yes, I was. You’re over-generalizing, Scott. I was drunk and you and Ororo were a bit of a shock, but it was simply poor timing. I’m not always drunk, as you’ve seen.”

“Hank said it gets bad sometimes. You didn’t have any food!”

“It had been a bad week. These past years I have missed you and that never goes away, but I’ve also been bored. It’s a rather insidious thing, boredom. This is my own fault, not yours.”

 _Bored_. It seemed like a silly and small explanation, but said with such a serious tone, Scott knew he meant it. Could boredom do that, even to a person like Charles?

“Okay.”

Scott wasn’t sure what else to say. He didn’t like it. There was a lot about the past few days that he didn’t like. He had thought coming home would let him just return to the life he had left behind and losing that wasn’t easy.

He didn’t like it, but he accepted it.

“I missed you, too. We had time and I got to know Chris, and he—he’s not a bad man. He’s made mistakes, but… he doesn’t replace you. What you did for me, I didn’t forget, not a moment.”

“Of course. I wanted you to get to know him and I’m glad you had the chance.”

“You were my real dad.”

“Well,” Charles remarked mildly, “I should bloody think so.”


	10. GED

Dear Charles,

We both fought against the GED idea. I think we were both afraid not to pass, so now that we both have and haven't, it's a strange sensation. Between the two of us, we earned an entire diploma. We only lost pieces of one.

It's pretty good, right?

I don't think you were disappointed in us.

I don't know if these letters are for you or as a journal. I haven't showed any to you and I don't know if I will. Maybe I mean them for me, if something happens. If we lose more decades.

These days happen as 'we'. We do everything together. We study together, outside mostly, with a reliable consistency of snacks. Today, snacks are like 1960s snacks, with extras. Chips with salt and vinegar. Popcorn with caramel. Coke in metal cans. Ice cream from Vermont hippies. (Some things haven't changed.)

We go into town together sometimes, when we go into town, to the library or on an errand. The town has changed, too. It's bigger. There are still more white people than anyone else, but people of other races are uncommon instead of outright problematic. Some things are so much better than they were 46 years ago.

We're just us, and it's been great, but I don't know how to tell you this. There's a distance between us and you now. Between us and Hank, us and Alex. That distance is full of fear. It's nobody's fault, but how do we know it's real this time?

I think what I mean here is to remind you that we—no, I can only speak for myself here. I still love you. Please don't give up on me before I figure out how to brave. I'm the same person I was then. I promise.

Love from,   
1964


	11. Feel Everything

"Good afternoon, Jean."

"Hi, Professor."

Jean had been coming here for five years now. She had been skeptical at first, eleven years old and a mix of brash and scared. She had known there was something wrong, and a meeting with someone her father knew in college seemed unlikely to help.

She could now honestly say that she had been wrong. Her parents didn't even need to give her a ride anymore. She had driven herself here today and was proud of that.

It was entirely possible the car jumped the curb on the way over, but that was beside the point!

"How have you been this week?" Professor Xavier always began with that question.

Jean smiled tightly. "Mostly it was pretty good."

She smoothed her skirt as she took a seat. The office was familiar now and she always chose the same seat. Before Professor Xavier, her parents sent her to see several shrinks; any time one of them told her to choose a seat, she had took the shrink's.

Obviously, that hadn't been an option here.

"Mostly?"

"Well…"

At sixteen, Jean was a high school sophomore. They had spent weeks discussing strategies for the inevitable: finals week. Like most mutants, she had a strong connection between her emotions and her gifts. The stress of exams was always a challenge.

Professor Xavier gave her a sympathetic look.

"It happened again," Jean said, clutching her hands together. "Once my powers get started, it's harder and harder to get back under control. It started out as some papers rustling, but I panicked."

"What happened next?"

She looked away, shaking her head.

"It's all right, Jean."

She sighed. "I messed up."

"You're still learning. You slipped."

"I don't understand why we have to talk about it. It happened, it was an accident, it won't happen again."

Even she knew the flaw in that logic. It would happen again. Although her control over her power was improving, the 'slip' indicated that she still had work to do. She didn't want to talk about it, though.

The explanation Professor Xavier gave, albeit kindly, was one she had heard before. "It's okay to make mistakes, but you must be able to accept them. Accepting your gifts is the only way you can learn to control them. You don't need to be ashamed of losing control."

Yeah, but she was.

She shook her head and forced herself to say it, like it didn't matter, "The papers got swept off the desks, some books fell off the shelves. A couple of lightbulbs burst." Knowing what came next, "Nobody got hurt. I mean somebody's cheek was cut." By the end of her explanation she had wrapped her braid around her fingers and was breathing differently.

"What are you feeling right now, Jean?"

"Fine."

"Jean."

"I'm _fine!_ " she snapped.

The curtains trembled.

She shook her head.

"Deep breath."

That would be a problem. She was having a hard time getting _any_ breath; her powers reached out to the world around her and her telekinesis was easier to use with things she could see but now, when she lost control she could _feel_ everything in the room.

"It's not—I'm okay."

"You're not okay."

He was right. He was usually right and nine times in ten Jean appreciated it, liked having access to an expert on the craziness her life her become.

She would have liked him to be wrong now.

The chess piece scattered.

"Jean."

A few seconds after the lights started to flicker, she felt her mood change and knew what had happened. Most of the time, Professor Xavier worked with her to teach her to control both her gifts and her emotions. Sometimes, in bad moments, he used his powers to calm her mind.

For a moment, she simply caught her breath. The lights were off, but natural light from the windows was sufficient and far more pleasant. She heard the unevenness, though. The way her lungs felt uneven. It was like coming down from a migraine: her body felt wrung and her head raw.

She pressed her hands over her eyes.

"It was _so embarrassing,_ " she moaned. "The whole class saw." They hadn't known it was her, but they _saw_. They knew that someone in their class was a mutant.

She continued, "Everyone was talking about it the next day. They whispered all through our AP Euro exam. And I had to do it, too, I wanted to seem normal and some of the girls were actually pretty freaked out and I don't even remembered who got defenestrated in Prague."

That had been her last day of school. Jean was surprised to find how long she could talk about it, but by the end of the conversation she really did feel better.

The scattered chess pieces turned into a practice exercise as she raised them back to the board. Jean sat up straight and focused on breathing to gather her focus. Then the first piece shakily lifted itself onto the board. It landed with a series of taps in the second-farthest row.

Jean smiled. It was an unsteady smile, but a smile nonetheless.

She chose to fix the entire board. It took a little over a quarter of an hour and there were sweat trails on her face when she finished, but she was proud. She looked to Professor Xavier for confirmation.

"Well done," he told her, though he did move closer to the table and switch the rooks and the bishops.

Whoops.

She was still pleased with what she had done—and he appeared to be, as well.

"Your precision has come such a long way. You're doing wonderfully."

She had to laugh: "Do you remember the test with the sponges?"

Professor Xavier laughed, too. "I remember someone pouring a bucket of water over my head."

"It was too hard!"

"You had two-foot ranges. Compared to where you are today, it's child's play."

Jean smiled, even though she knew she had behaved like a child. Then she tilted her head as it listening and changed the subject:

"Who's here?"

"I'm sorry?"

He sounded surprised. It was rare she actually surprised him.

"When I was… um… disheveling your office, when my powers were out of control, I could feel other minds. Not just you and me. You knew about that… right?"


	12. Walden

Ororo passed less of her GED exam than Scott did, and she wasn't happy about that. Although he was older and had been in school far longer—from kindergarten, whereas she only started a couple of years ago—she considered herself smarter than him. The GED had indicated otherwise.

They both passed the social studies component. Scott of course passed the reading and writing sections easily, and surprised himself by passing science, though he fell short in math. Besides social studies, math was the only section Ororo passed. She had been surprised by the amount of reading involved in the science test, but it wasn’t about understanding science but putting science into words.

So she wasn't happy. She needed to retake reading, writing, and science; Scott needed to retake math.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live del… deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach—what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die—okay, what is this?" Ororo demanded, looking up from her study guide.

They had been asked to stay out of the way while the Professor's student was here, at least for now. It was understandable, really. He had explained that he built a careful environment for her to feel safe and wanted to introduce them, but not suddenly.

So Ororo and Scott sat on the grass at the side of the mansion with study guides that were meant to help them prepare for their next test.

"It's from _Walden_ , I think," Scott replied. He leaned over to look at the passage. "Yeah. _Walden._ "

"That helped, since I know what _Walden_ is."

"Well, let's take it one sentence at a time. Actually, these are complex-compound sentences. One phrase at a time. 'I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.'"

"Deliberately? Doesn't that mean on purpose?"

"Yes."

"Well that doesn't make sense," Ororo replied. "You can't decide to live, you're born and you live, it's that simple."

"He means more than physically living. He means the quality of his life, the things he does every day and how they impact him. Living is more than just being alive."

Ororo shrugged. "So he went to the woods for this?"

"I think he felt too confined by society."

She considered that for a moment. It sounded a lot like running away to her. It was too hard for him to live as he wanted to around other people. Why did he care so much what they thought? Why was he letting them make his choices?

"Okay, think about it this way. You used to cover your hair, right?"

"When I was a kid, yes."

"When you were in the desert, when you were alone, did you still do it?"

She thought about that. "Not at night. During the day I had to. I was blistering everywhere." Her shoulder where her clothes were torn; her fingers where she tried to hold them together; her nose and cheeks…

"Did you like having your hair uncovered?"

Again, she had to think about it—but not for long. The day was beautiful, warm weather and a sky with just a few fluffy white clouds. A breeze ruffled her hair. It was a simple good feeling.

"Yes."

"Would you have done it back in Cairo?"

Ororo shook her head. "My hair is different. It's obvious. Dangerous." Her hair would stand out anywhere but a retirement home—and the rest of her would stand out there. She was a young woman with very old hair.

Scott nodded.

A moment later, she realized what he had done.

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because it's different! It was actually literally dangerous to me."

"Okay, but how about what you were looking at when we went to the market?"

Ororo's eyes widened. She looked away. "I didn't know you saw that."

"You can do it if you want, I won’t say anything," Scott assured her. "I get it. I don't like being stared at either, and it's way less obvious for me."

"I'm not really going to dye my hair."

"You thought about it, though. And that's what Thoreau wanted to escape when he went into the woods."

No matter how accepting Scott was about it, Ororo didn't like that he had caught her looking at hair dye. And she was only _looking_. So did that make her better or worse than Thoreau? Running away did kind of make him a coward, but at least he was dedicated to his cowardice.

Then again…

"So we're like him. Aren't we?"

"How?" Scott asked.

"Because real life is too hard, and we came here."

"Thoreau's situation was a little more… rustic," he replied, which was probably a fair assessment. Most things were more rustic. "And our lives have probably been harder."

Ororo couldn't argue with that and she knew it. She glanced at Scott's shirt. He didn't talk much about the orphanage, but she had seen the scars and heard the nightmares. If they truly had retreated from the world, they had good reasons.

His were easier to think about, because remembering the emptinesses of her past just hurt. Ororo pulled her knees up to her chest when she thought about what happened to her in the desert, about watching her home burn, and—bitterest—about what happened to a friend back in Kenya. All of that and it was before coming here!

For a while they sat quietly, both lost in their own miseries. Their lives, Ororo thought, truly had been harder than most, and she didn't care for the self-pity it made her feel. She could get caught up in this. It would weigh her down.

Anyway, it made her stronger.

There were better things to think about, though. Like snacks.

Or, as she discovered, not.

"Did you seriously eat all the pretzels?"

"What? No. There's—okay, most of them, yes."

"Well, go get more."

"Ororo, we agreed."

They would give plenty of space for Professor Xavier's student. Yes. And it was fair. They had been given such space when they first arrived.

Still…

" _You_ agreed."

"Ororo."

"Fight you for it."

"We're not—"

She tackled him. Scott had always been the better fighter and had her pinned in a moment, but Ororo was scrappier and she pounced again as soon as he let her up. That had always been a weakness of Scott’s. He was honorable.

Once they set in, nothing stood a chance. Book pages were bent and the remaining pretzels crushed. They alternated laughing and hushing each other. Ororo was just about to get the upper hand when they were interrupted with a telepathic request to come inside.

"I win," she announced.

"No way."

"I do. We're meeting Charles's student after all."


	13. Introductions

Ororo could not help thinking about the day they met Laurie. She had been uninterested in making friends, uncomfortable with her powers; they later realized it was because her power impacted those around her, but for a long time Ororo just hated Laurie. She knew it was immature, but Laurie was purposely unpleasant.

To protect them, of course. Unfortunately, she was really good at isolating people.

The morning Laurie arrived, Ororo and Scott were excited to meet her. They did not make the best introduction by tripping over each other and meeting her in a mutated heap.

As Ororo and Scott headed inside, she raked her fingers through her hair and he straightened his shirt. This was going to be another Laurie, wasn't it?

"You have—here, just let me."

They paused and Scott picked the grass out of Ororo's hair.

It didn't stop Professor Xavier raising an eyebrow when he saw them. They had come around to the side of the mansion and slipped in through the kitchen door. Ororo blinked as her eyes adjusted from the flood of sunshine.

"I won't ask."

"We were studying," Scott said. "Thoreau." Then he turned to the young woman beside Professor Xavier and said, "I'm Scott Summers and this is Ororo Munroe. Pleased to meet you."

She looked genuinely surprised when he offered his hand, but after a few seconds, she shook.

"Jean Grey. Nice to meet you, too."

She was pretty in a classic sort of way, with her red hair in a braid and no suggestion that she had just been wrestling in the grass to prove a point about… about… well, Ororo didn't recall, but that was irrelevant. Jean looked like a proper, non-tomboy girl.

Ororo saw Scott's chin dip just a quarter of an inch and promptly jolt up again.

"What is your gift?" he asked. "If you don't mind discussing it."

Ororo went to get herself a drink, because rooting through the fridge gave her a fantastic excuse to hide the grin on her face. She bit down on her lip to keep from giggling at how painfully obvious Scott had been noticing Jean's chest. He hadn't been crude, but to someone who knew him—he had enjoyed the view. (Then again, it was worth enjoying.)

Meanwhile, Jean answered Scott's question, "I'm telekinetic. I move things with my mind. And telepathic, but it’s—I’m still developing it. What about you?"

"Optic blasts," Scott replied. "Ororo controls the weather."

The mutant in question tossed a can of Coke at his head, knowing he would catch it easily. (He did.)

"Does anyone else want anything?" Ororo asked.

"I can make tea," Scott offered.

"You already have a drink," Jean pointed out.

"He said he would _make_ the tea," Ororo said. No one had answered, so she shut the fridge and hopped onto the counter. "He doesn't drink tea."

"Did once," Scott muttered, and they both laughed as they finished, "And it's the last gosh-darn time!"

He put the kettle on—all those years and tea was still its same old self—and offered a cup to Jean, who accepted.

"Are you two working with Professor Xavier also?" she asked.

Ororo glanced at the Professor to see how she was supposed to answer. They couldn't very well tell Jean that they were time travelers who were staying here for a while, hopefully a long while but one never knew. That they knew Professor Xavier when he had hair.

"Ororo and Scott are going to be staying here for a while," he supplied.

"Oh."

Jean clearly wasn't satisfied with this answer.

"We were in foster care," Scott explained. "It's not a system that's exactly set up for mutants."

"Oh…" Her face crumpled like she had never met an orphan before—probably because she hadn't. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"We're not shy people," Ororo assured her. "Not about that, anyway."

Jean gave her a grateful smile. "So, you control the weather?"

"Yes."

"Like… rain, wind?"

"Mhm."

"Snow?"

"That too."

"Tornadoes?"

"Once."

"Twice," Scott corrected.

Ororo sighed. "For the last time, it was not a tornado! And I didn't cause it!"

"I know tornadoes, Ro."

"I control the weather, Scott."

"Yeah, yeah, Queen of All that Walk the Earth."

"It wasn't a tornado."

While they argued, the world had stopped mattering. Scott was twisted halfway around in his chair, with an expression Ororo knew. She grinned back and readied to jump off the counter.

She might have too, but for Professor Xavier interrupting, "You two are not fighting in this kitchen."

"That's fair," Ororo agreed.

"I'm sorry," Scott added. "To you as well, Jean, that was rude. We got a little carried away."

"That's okay," Jean said. "How long have you two known each other?"

"Forty-five years," Ororo said. She wanted to see what would happen if she told the truth and Charles's expression was beyond words.

"Two and half years," Scott replied.

"But he can make time slow down."

Neither Scott nor Charles seemed amused by this and Ororo hadn't meant it that way. She hadn't been thinking about Scott's aging situation, just implying he was boring. Only as a joke, of course.

Jean raised her eyebrows. "I'll bet."

Scott sighed. "Yeah…"

Ororo had seen that he was protective and dedicated, that his seemingly boring persona was simply a constant awareness of those around him. Still, he could come off a little boring before you got to know him.

For a moment, Jean looked between the two of them, clearly trying to make sense of something. Then she said, "Anyway, I should go. I have to get home or my—um, I have to get home." If she had never come face-to-face with a foster kid, she probably didn't know that it was okay to mention parents in front of them. "It was nice to meet you both."


	14. Therapy

Annie curled in an uncomfortable chair made of something part-vinyl, part-plastic, all-suck. She had a beanie pulled over her head despite the itchy heat it caused. She still needed to re-dye her hair and the blond roots were painfully obvious.

She was going to use a bandanna, but that seemed tactless.

Her phone buzzed with an IM — _hey, what's up?_

What was up? How could she even begin to explain this? Her great-uncle had returned and he was apparently all but her age. And there had been that awkward moment, before her grandpa introduced them, that Annie thought he was kind of cute. Nerdy, but cute.

That wasn't awkward or anything.

_You're never around._

Yeah, that was true. She hadn't much felt like hanging out lately. Disappointingly, only one person had mentioned it.

 _Family stuff,_ she sent back.

She hadn't mentioned, either, that she was switching schools. It hadn't happened yet and maybe they would move back over the summer. Somehow.

_Lame._

_Yeah._

No—even Annie knew that.

Her grandma started puking. Annie winced and looked back to her phone.

She hadn't wanted to come here today. It was her grandpa's idea and she knew it was still about what she had in her desk drawer; he hadn't taken away her weed or told her mom, but he wasn't a big fan of giving her time to herself, either. This was too far.

Alex stood next to his wife, stroking her hair back and holding a basin for her to throw up into. Annie knew she should do something, too. She should help. But she didn't know what to do and it made her feel like throwing up, too.

"Therapy" was a euphemistic term. She knew it was shortened to just "chemo" because that was, well, shorter. But she thought maybe it was also because "therapy" was a really odd and ill-fitting name for slowly dripping poison into someone's arm.

"Oh, God…"

"I know, darling," Alex soothed.

"You can't imagine," she groaned.

"You've stitched me up from worse."

"That bullet was nothing."

"You drained the infection in a _tent_!"

"It was never infected," she murmured.

"I remember the pain. The bugs."

She shook her head weakly. "That was normal. Healing. I just wanted to see you again."

"Lucky for you where I was shot."

Annie groaned. This was hard enough without having to hear her grandparents flirt. Grandpa was a war hero, her mom raised her knowing that for a fact, and Annie knew he once got shot in the butt. She knew Grandma was the nurse who patched him up and they fell in love.

There limits to what she could hear!

Alex, apparently sympathetic, scooped change out of his pocket. "Why don't you go find a vending machine?" he suggested. "Get me anything but Snickers."

Annie leapt to retrieve the change, but hesitated. She truly did love her grandma and she didn't mean to seem cold. It just hurt, more than she knew how to handle.

"Grandma?" she whispered.

Her grandma looked at her and smiled weakly—then vomited again.

Annie bolted.

She had assumed chemo happened in hospitals, and had been surprised when they went to a clinic instead. It still smelled of antiseptic in a way that coated her throat and she knew her grandma was getting good treatment. Of course she would; Annie's grandmother had served as a nurse in Vietnam. She was a war hero, too.

She stood in front of the vending machines for a while, scanning the snacks and not seeing anything.

Her grandma had always been a part of her life. She was there when Annie was born (Annie was told), at holidays and school concerts. And sure, Annie knew that people died, but there was knowing people died and watching it happen to her grandma.

She was so numb she fumbled with a wrapper all the way back to her grandma. The doctor was talking to her grandparents. Annie couldn't watch when he pulled the needle out. She just stood aside and waited for them to be okay.

Her grandpa noticed her long before reaching 'okay'.

"Annie!"

Alex snatched the candy out of her hands.

"I think you got yourself chips."

"Huh?" She realized she had—and the candy she had been struggling to open was peanut butter cups. No wonder her grandpa grabbed it like that. She was allergic to peanuts.

* * *

 

"Are you okay? No, I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say."

"No, it's fine. I'm, uh… I'm really not, Scott. It's not a death sentence." Alex brushed a tear off his cheek, unwilling to let himself lose control. He couldn't. His wife's illness, Daisy and Annie staying here—no, breaking down was not a question. And now every time he talked to Scott he was leaking.

"Alex…"

"Are you pressing your palm to the screen?"

After a moment, Scott admitted, "Yes. Is that dorky?"

"It's nice. And dorky. I can't actually see it from here, but I know what you're doing."

Alex had spent a long time in a pre-computer era and although he accepted communication via computer, it still seemed to lack something. He understood Scott's impulse to reach out. It would have been nice to share a physical proximity.

Of course, from his perspective, all Alex saw was Scott leaning forward slightly and the way his shoulder was held.

"Did you get your GED?"

"Almost."

"Almost? I passed mine on the first try."

"No you didn't. And tests are way harder than they used to be! You should see the SAT prep guides. Anyway, I need to retake math. Ororo has to redo science and language arts. Professor Xavier has another student."

"You mean a patient."

"I don't think so," Scott replied.

Alex didn't look down on Charles's profession. He had seen how counseling helped some of the men he served with, not to mention other mutants. But it was what it was. Being a student and a patient were different things.

Then again, they were calling him 'Professor', although that might be habit. They knew him by that name back in the sixties.

"What's he like?"

"She seems nice. She's telekinetic. She seemed excited to meet us, I think we were… rude."

"Rude?" Alex asked. "That's not the Scott I remember."

Did he know what was like Scott anymore? It had only been a few months for Scott. He looked just like he did in Hank's old Polaroids.

"We're not good at being around new people," Scott explained. "It's been so long. We can slip into our own world around Professor Xavier or Hank, they understand, but we didn't mean to shut out Jean and we did. And… it's hard to talk to girls."

"You always did have a hard time with the fairer sex."

"Yep."

As he was decades ago, Alex never would have understood what Scott was asking him. Times changed people, though; he had raised two kids and was the nearest Annie had to a father as well. He knew when someone was trying to put together a question about advice.

"Does Ororo like her?"

"Yes," Scott said, sounding relieved. "I was worried about that, she sometimes, um…"

"Women are like that," Alex told him. "Competitive or something, I don't know. She already goes by the mansion, right? You should invite her to stay over."

"How did you know she comes to the mansion?"

"It's Charles, of course he meets her there. Ask her to stay for dinner."

"Yeah, but what if that seems forward?"

Alex laughed. "Then she'll say no," he said. "Modern girls aren't quite what you're used to, Scott. Ask her to stay."

Scott thought about it for a moment, silent, and Alex hoped he would follow through. The Scott he knew all those years ago had a hard time making friends, but Alex saw the difference. He still thought of Scott as he had been when they first met, volatile and mousy. The boy in front of him was different.

He was easier to focus on. It was the same when Alex found the pot in Annie's room or the time he found Daisy about to light her canvas on fire. Daisy was human, like her mother, but she had Alex's disposition. It was easier. He wasn't happy about their struggles, of course he wasn't, but he preferred having something else to focus on.

There were nights he prayed for a pipe to burst…

"I wish I could be there for you, Alex."

Alex waved it off. "When she's in remission," he said. "This isn't how I want you to meet your sister-in-law."

"Alex…" Scott began, but he seemed to have changed his mind when he next spoke. "She's okay with this? With, well, having a brother-in-law who could be her grandson?"

Alex smiled. He really had been lucky to find such an understanding woman. It wasn't just the struggles after the war or the number of times Charles called and Alex went running. It wasn't just his mutation and his temper—he had never hurt her, but he would storm out of the house. And she put up with him until he learned to be a real man.

He hadn't talked much about Scott to anyone else. He told the story that made sense: he never saw his brother again after the plane crashed. Just like Charles had to tell the story that his foster-children had run away.

"She married a mutant," Alex said. "It's unexpected, but she's faced down weirder things. Besides, we only have the one grandchild. She wouldn't mind a grandson."

"You're not funny."

"Yes I am."


	15. A Family History of Charcoal

_Usually they spent only days between planets and even that made Ororo queasy. Sometimes, though… sometimes things got bad. They would be weeks in space, or more actively on the run with only brief stops to resupply._

_Those were the times Ororo remembered when she dreamed._

_It was so hard being even passingly polite. She would remind herself over and over of what she told Scott—that they needed these people, wouldn't survive without them—but she was constantly nauseous and in a terrible mood because of it._

_Once, the captain even ordered the medical droid Sikorsky to scan her for signs of pregnancy. No one ever believed that she and Scott had no sexual interest in one another. Or perhaps it was the only explanation for an otherwise healthy young woman to be sick every day. (She hadn't been thrilled when she learned of this. All she could think to say was, "Your grandchild won't be that lucky!")_

_In her dreams, she was perpetually waking up, the sickness hitting her all over again. In her dreams, it lasted years._

Ororo awoke sick from the memory. She pushed back the covers and slipped out of bed. It was just before morning; through the window she caught a glimpse of a navy sky just a shade brighter than black. Early enough to sleep.

Heat caught her bare legs as she padded down the hall and there were damp patches on her shirt. She knew she could have used an air conditioner unit, but preferred the heat and fresh air.

After another dream, though, she opted for the a/c.

Well, she opted for a room with a/c running.

She shivered as she closed the door. Still in the dark, she made her way over to the bed and climbed under the covers. There was only a bit of edge left, but Scott moved over when she nudged him.

"Hey, 'Ro."

"Hey," she whispered back. "I tried not to wake you."

"S'okay. What time's it?"

"I dunno. Early."

"Another dream?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want me to rub your back?"

She didn't know if it had actually helped her breathe easier on the ship, or if it helped because it relaxed her. There were a few moments of quiet shuffling.

Eventually they had realized that the ship's environment made Ororo sick. Her sympathetic connection to the weather meant that having a false, tinned environment was like being without oxygen. It hurt her body, but that was nothing compared to how it scared her mind.

So a few nightmares, she thought, were reasonable.

* * *

 

The smoke alarm kept blaring, even after Scott doused the remains of dinner in the sink and after Ororo propped open the kitchen door and built up a small windstorm to clear the air. Professor Xavier was supposed to have a way of disabling the damn thing—he couldn't very well climb up on a chair to disable it, the way Jean tried to. But none of them knew what it was.

"What were you cooking, anyway?" Ororo shouted to be heard over the alarm.

"Does that matter?" Scott replied just as loudly.

Jean couldn't quite reach the smoke alarm. The chair creaked alarmingly and she hopped to the ground, then looked up helplessly.

"Aren't you telekinetic?" Ororo asked. "Could you get it that way?"

"Yeah, but—I don't know if I can."

A zapping sound and a quick beam of red light ended the discussion. The alarm stopped blaring. Pieces fell to the ground and where it had previously hung was a blackened mark with bits of broken plastic still attached.

Scott swapped his visor for his glasses before commenting, "This thing is better than the last one."

"That was awesome," Jean told him.

He shook his head. "It was foolish. This is new and I've barely had any practice, I could've—"

"But you didn't," Ororo interrupted, "so don't get lost in hypotheticals." She was used to Scott's anxiety and constant need to second-guess himself, albeit toned down over the years.

The mess in the sink was still steaming gently, so they left the door open. Professor Xavier arrived a moment later and it was clear what had happened. The kitchen still smelled of smoke and Scott was trying to pretend he wasn't blushing.

"Nobody's hurt, are they?" When all three of them shook their heads, Charles said, "All right, then. I'll leave you two to argue about take-out."

"Ooh, what about that new sushi place?" Jean asked. "I know I wasn't one of the two in question, but it's something to think about? Maybe? Right?"

Ororo and Scott glanced at each other.

"I'd try it," Ororo offered, partly because she didn't want to admit she didn't know what sushi was.

"Sure," Scott agreed. She could only assume he didn't know, either.

It turned out to mean rice and seaweed wrapped around bits of fish or vegetables or tofu. (Ororo wasn't sure what tofu was, either; Scott asked and they learned it was bean curd. Neither of them opted to try it.)

Jean and Professor Xavier seemed to know how sushi worked. Ororo watched them snap off the ends of what looked like blunted pencils and decided she couldn't be bothered with it. She picked up a piece with her fingers.

"Ororo."

She popped the first piece of sushi in her mouth quickly, then picked up a fork—okay, okay, she would be all… table-manners-y!

Scott was struggling with the pencils. They had traveled to all sorts of planets with the Starjammers, and seen various utensils, but nothing like that. Knives were very common. Sticks were… usually for building fires, if anything.

"How do you that?"

"It's like this." Jean reached across the table, her shirt dipping in just the wrong place—or the right place, if one chose to think of it that way!—to guide Scott's hand. After a few seconds, she laughed. "Hang on. I can't do this backwards."

Instead she came around to stand half-beside him, half-next to him. Ororo watched him shrink away from Jean, growing even clumsier.

"There's always a fork," Ororo reminded him.

"Sure, but… that feels like just forking giving up," Scott replied.

She rolled her eyes, but it was good-natured—the joke was silly but harmless.

"I mean, I wouldn't want to look like a forking loser."

"All right, Scott," Professor Xavier said.

Ororo took the opportunity to eat another piece with her fingers. After all the strange food she and Scott had eaten in the past few months, she was quite fond of new things and had chosen a California roll because it was a mix of things she hadn't tried before named for a place she hadn't been.

And, even with a fork, it was good.

"This may actually be better than pizza," she said, turning the conversation away from Scott's silly forking jokes. "Maybe burning dinner wasn't such a bad move."

"That's nothing," Scott replied, "I have a family history of charcoal. Remember the story about my mom's first Thanksgiving?" Ororo and Scott knew the story, but Charles and Jean didn't, so Scott explained, "My parents' first Thanksgiving together, she wanted to—well, there was no point cooking a turkey for two people, but she tried to roast a chicken. She set off the fire alarm and they had to bury the chicken in the snow to make it stop smoking."

"In the snow?" Jean asked.

Scott nodded. "Apparently she was a really bad cook. I don't remember this, but my father told me that when I was a toddler I started crying and put my hands over my ears every time she used the oven. So I'm like my mom. Can't cook. And sushi is actually pretty good."

"I've earned your approval to come back, then?" Jean asked.

"Well, you've got mine," Ororo offered, "and clearly you have the professor's, so Scott's vote doesn't matter. That is how democracy works, yes?"

The response was a mix of laughter and sighing.

"We will revisit civics," Professor Xavier promised.

Or, as Ororo would phrase it, threatened!


	16. People Not Like Them

"What was it like when you moved in?" Ororo asked. She had been the second student at the school. She remembered being very puffed up, trying make herself look bigger. Trying to be tough. She hadn't realized that trying to play alpha dog to someone like Scott just was pointless.

Actually, she realized, it might work now. He had his feet on firmer ground. At the time he had been too damaged to bark back.

"Professor Xavier found me in the police station," Scott replied.

They sat at the kitchen table with toast, milk, and GED books.

"You got arrested?" Ororo asked. "Scott, I remember what you were like then, how did you get arrested?"

He cleared his throat, focused instead on the books. Math had always been a challenge for him, just like literary analysis had always been a challenge for Ororo. Back in the 60s, they could muddle through, but standards were tougher now.

"I, uh, I blew up a building." Scott managed to say this like it was no big deal. Of course—he blew up a building, _as one does_.

"You blew up a _building_?"

Everything he said was a hint that there was something bigger going on, a glimpse into a story Ororo wanted to know way more than any in a GED test.

"I made a mistake."

"Scott…"

"They brought me home in the middle of the night. Legally, I think they kidnapped me, but you know who was supposed to have custody. It's demeaning. Custody. It's—I was just a kid, I know, and I couldn't make the right decisions for myself, but it's hard to be talked about as a resource by people who don't see you as a person. That's how I came here, though."

Ororo hadn't known any of that. It wasn't that she didn't ask, but Scott had been cagey about it and Professor Xavier simply told her that this was up to Scott.

She was sorry to have asked now. Embarrassed, too. It was no secret that Scott's life before arriving here was painful and sad. Ororo hadn't thought about how he would have arrived. She knew it meant being a kid, just like she had been.

"I was in an orphanage," she offered. "Professor Xavier must have used his powers, because there's no way a Catholic orphanage would have adopted out a kid to an unmarried Jew and an atheist."

She was quite right; back in the 1960s, an unmarried person couldn't adopt, especially a man. Charles only managed it with Scott thanks to several very generous donations and even then it led to accusations of abuse.

"My father was an American citizen. I had a friend back in Africa." Usually, Ororo didn't like people using that term lightly, because this was an entire continent. People would say Africa like they would say Cleveland. "She—let something bad happen to her, and decided to be someone else, and it broke my heart. So I found… there were nuns who helped with these things. They weren't set up for mutants, but for humans, they did good things. That's where Charles and Ruth found me."

They looked at their books for a while, both with a lot to think about in multiple ways. Ororo and Scott had both been lost, caught up in systems for people not like them. It was another time and Professor Xavier pulled strings to bring them home.

Today, when a new student joined their little school, her parents would drop her off—or maybe one parent, or a sibling might come, too. It wasn't the first time. Laurie's mom dropped her off, and Doug's parents had picked him up for Christmas break. Laurie and Doug had each other, though, the other normal-background kid at school. Jean wouldn't have that.

"Are we supposed to meet her parents?" Ororo asked.

They were a big part of the reason Jean was going to be there. And it made sense. Her dad and Professor Xavier went way back, but it was still simply unsettling to send your teenage daughter to live with alone with someone who could be her grandfather but wasn't. When that person also had two foster children of a similar age, that was different.

Ororo was already thinking of the visual. Of course it should be staged. Studying? Studious was always good. Or playing? There was a soccer ball in serious need of kicking.

"We'll ask," Scott decided.

"I should have known you would say that," Ororo retorted. It was a very Scott-ish thing to do, to look for rules and follow them. Ororo preferred to find loopholes and jump through them.

"I trust Professor Xavier," Scott said. "I know you think I'm a goody-two-shoes, but sometimes obedience is a way to show respect. It shows that you trust someone enough to follow their decisions."

Ororo gnawed at the last bit of toast as she thought about that. "You are a goody-two-shoes," she decided. "But I respect you for it."

Professor Xavier told them they did not have to meet Jean's parents unless they wanted to. They didn't need to go out of their way or do anything they normally wouldn't. He wanted them to make Jean feel welcome, but he wanted them to be themselves, too.

While she waited, Ororo couldn't stop thinking about how _normal_ Jean was. Sure, she lost control of her powers sometimes, but she looked normal. But there were Scott's glasses, and the visor really couldn't pass for normal. And Ororo… she was a mixed-race girl with white hair.

Ultimately, she was too curious about Jean's family not to meet them. Scott decided it would be rude not to at least say hello.

Not that it mattered much.

Jean's dad and Professor Xavier had known each other for ages. Jean's dad seemed more able to talk to him than anyone else, visibly anxious. Shy of an introduction, Ororo and Scott both felt like interlopers in this conversation.

"We could show you your room," Scott suggested to Jean.

While her dad was anxious, she looked eager.

"Great!"

Jean followed Scott down the hallway. Ororo hesitated a moment. A part of her still wanted to eavesdrop, but she had learned by now that adult conversations were often not that interesting. She could guess what this one would be: mostly Professor Xavier comforting Mr. Grey, assuring him that Jean would be fine… nice, but boring.

Following after Scott and Jean made her feel like a third wheel, especially after the hesitation left her behind. Ororo scowled and tamped down the urge to kick the wall. She had been excited about Jean moving in. How did that change so quickly to being on the outside of things?

She could have gathered her study guides—more scintillating passages where everything was a sideways allusion to a metaphor—and headed for her room, but it was right next to Jean's and only an improvement in that it provided the opportunity to either study or make her bed. Both such attractive options.

Instead, she headed outside.

It was a clear day when anyone could appreciate the weather, even people who were not weather witches. Ororo just stood for a moment, drinking in the sunshine. Then she began to gather the wind to her.

It rustled the grass first, then grew strong enough to tug at her clothes. She shook her head: she wanted more. She twitched her fingers, calling the wind to her the way she might call a dog. And like a good dog, the wind came to her.

She had worked with different environments, on planets with different atmospheres and different gravities. Only with a lighter pull of gravity had she previously achieved what she wanted now. She bit her lip, pulling on her power. It was trapped under frustration and annoyance, but still there.

And, finally, the wind hit the strength she needed. It lifted her off the ground. There was a jolt of fear, what her body recognized as falling because suddenly she had nothing under her feet, but she fought around it. Fear weakened her grip on her power. She fought for, and maintained, the control she needed.

The ground fell another inch beneath her… another…

She felt her control slipping again, fuzzy, but she wasn't ready to come down quite yet.

It was an experiment that ultimately left her sprawled on her back in the grass, grinning and giggling as she tried to catch her breath.


	17. Hank's Cure

Paper tore loudly. They used to have q-tips and antiseptic. Now it like a small baton, the end wide, and disinfectant thick and dark. It was still cold, though. Antiseptic was always cold.

Hank released Scott's arm.

"Hold still."

Scott nodded.

Hank punched a needle into a vial and sucked out a thin liquid. They had talked about it in detail. It was only tested on animals—mostly rats, a beagle. It had 100% success rate but was not 100% effective, more like 85%. It would do the job, but it would only make Scott mostly normal.

"Are you ready?"

Scott nodded again. "I trust you, Hank."

He grunted when the needle went in.

"Try to relax the muscle."

"Mhm," but he was tense as harpstrings. Injections hurt worse into tense muscles, but Scott couldn't relax and asked Hank to get it over with. Hank did.

"Kind of anti-climactic," Scott observed.

He hadn't needed to wait long, all of two years really—or forty, however one counted. He still expected a little more. It wasn't that he was disappointed with Hank's solution, just a little surprised.

"Science is, sometimes," Hank replied. He cleaned the dark antiseptic off Scott's arm. "I'll continue taking samples and monitor your progress. Remember, this won't make you age at quite the usual rate, but it should bring you close."

"85%," Scott recounted. "It's still amazing, Hank. Thank you. You didn't have to do this for me."

Hank stuck a band-aid on his arm.

"You were a good friend to me when I needed a friend. The cure should start to take effect over the next few weeks. Pay attention for any changes. Meanwhile…"

Hank stopped by reliably every Friday evening and usually stayed through the weekend. He helped Ororo and Scott study for their GED exams, tried to explain the Internet, but most importantly, he brought them up to speed on pop culture.

He invited the others to what he insisted would be a fantastic movie marathon on several levels.

Jean and Charles both already had and passed on the opportunity; both had seen or at least been aware of most major movies in the past decade. Ororo was inclined to agree. "I didn't like that when it was a book," she reminded them.

So Hank and Scott settled on the couch to start _Fellowship of the Ring_. It was a shame, Hank said, that Scott hadn't been able to see this on the big screen.

"This is a big screen," Scott pointed out.

"True."

The others popped in throughout the movie. Jean watched it for a while, but was clearly bored minus a few jokes. (And was it her fault Saruman inspired his Uruk-Hai army by promising they would "taste man-flesh"?!)

Ororo got annoyed with the whole business after the Mines of Moria.

Finally, just after the Fellowship broke—after the death scene Boromir really deserved over his behind-the-scenes passing in the books, as both Scott and Hank agreed—Professor Xavier interrupted before Hank could start the next movie.

"Did it live up to your expectations?"

Scott nodded. "Movies today are different," he observed. "I don't think it was necessarily better than some—like Casablanca—but, as far as Lord of the Rings goes, I mean, I didn't think the book could be… yes, it lives up to my expectations." It wasn't like Casablanca and left him more mixed up and emotional, and apparently incapable of coherence.

There were other things about Lord of the Rings that left Scott spluttering in outrage. He didn't care about Arwen replacing Glorfindel, but they had downplayed Eowyn's role—in The Two Towers her job was to _be there_ , and Scott didn't approve one bit, but at least she was a basically similar character.

"That's _not Faramir!_ " he cried. "It's not! That's… ugh… I… but… no! Just _no_ , Hank!"

Hank chuckled. "I know," he assured Scott.

"Is Mr. Tolkien still alive?"

"No, he passed away back in '73."

"At least he didn't live to see that."

"Well, there's some reasoning to it—I'm not saying I agree, but they had spent about four hours telling us how powerful the ring was. If Faramir could simply dismiss it as something he would not pick up if he found it lying by the highway—"

"Then why include him?!" Scott cried. "Why not… make up someone new? Tell me that jerk doesn't marry Eowyn. He is completely unworthy."

"Do you want me to tell you?"

Scott hesitated.

They had made it halfway through The Two Towers, and it was after midnight. They wouldn't watch the rest until tomorrow—or rather, until later that day.

"No," he said, "I'll find out tomorrow. Thanks, Hank."

"My pleasure. Good night."

Scott did not quite make it to bed, though.

He double-checked the locks on the doors, then stopped to brush his teeth. He was rinsing his mouth when he heard someone scream. He dropped his toothbrush and wiped his mouth on his shirt while he bolted.

The girls' bedrooms were next to each other, so he was already heading in the right direction. Logically it had to be Jean. Scott knew what Ororo's nightmares were like—tense and silent. But that was assuming this was a nightmare…

"Jean."

He reached out to wake her, but hesitated. Her shoulder was almost bare and… it was just a shoulder. And she was clearly terrified, but if he didn't look at her face, when he just looked at her shoulder—he swallowed, grabbed her shoulder, and shook.

"Jean, wake up!"

She had really soft skin… and why was he thinking _that_? Why was he noticing how nice, how warm and soft, her skin felt, when she was so scared?

"Jean, c'mon, Jean—"

She gasped and sat up, pushing the covers away, and scrambled out of bed. She didn't leave, though. She pushed open the window, pushed out the screen, and leaned on the sill, with her head out the window.

Scott slowly put his hand on her back and rubbed circles while she took deep, shaking breaths.

"What's going on?"

Jean didn't respond, but Scott turned to the doorway.

"I think she had a nightmare, Professor."

"Bricks," Jean rasped.

"What?"

"Bricks." She sounded better this time, like she had remembered now who she was. "Bricks. I… there were all these bricks. They weren't bricks, why were they bricks?"

"I don't know."

"Scott," Professor Xavier said.

He heard the implied instruction. "Of course…" And he hesitated to leave her, even though he barely knew Jean, but he trusted Professor Xavier. So he made himself leave.

"Good night, Scott."

"Right—yes. Good night."

Professor Xavier watched Jean for a moment. She was shaking less now, slowly steadying herself.

"Jean?"

She nodded and stepped away from the window, wiping her face.

"I don't know what happened."

"It was just a bad dream."

She nodded again. "I guess so."

She looked out the window again, then telekinetically reached for the screen. It needed physical nudging to settle back into the window.

"It seemed to go on forever," she said. "All these bricks were falling. I got trapped and I couldn't move, but it just—it just kept going, it just kept… I don't understand, I'm not—I don't know where it came from."

"Dreams aren't easy to understand. You're in a new place and I know you're nervous."

"I am," she said, "and excited, too… I haven't slept away from home in years. Not since I was ten."

It was a story she had told Professor Xavier before—her usual nightmare, something they revisited in counseling over and over. Jean sat on the edge of her bed. Not her bed, but a bed with her covers, her sheets, her pillows. At least she could be mildly comfortable telling the story.

"I had slept over at a friend's house. Annie Lyons. We rode our bikes halfway home. We had this routine, like a joke, to race to opposite ends of the block then turn… wave to each other. We were kids. She was waving and then she wasn't. I've had nightmares for years, Professor. Plenty of them. But when I have nightmares it's about—Annie's braces, where her teeth were knocked out. The color of her blood, the sound of the collision. The pain."

"It was a terrible thing you had to witness."

"I felt her die."

"I know."

She crossed her arms over her stomach. She had nightmares… but not nightmares that made her gasp for fresh air. And she was back to her own fears, the ones that still plagued her.

"I didn't just see it."

"Witnessing something is about more than just seeing it, but the entirety of an experience. For someone like you, it will always be a more intense experience than for anyone else. That's why you're here, Jean."

"It's just… hard."

"I know."

He stayed with her until she was calm enough to go back to sleep.


	18. Three Days and Seven Weeks

Jean drove a Ford that had seen better days and while the bumper stickers were all bands she liked or political candidates she hadn't been old enough to vote for, it was entirely possible they were holding the bumper together. Scott nudged Ororo. There was only one name they knew, but they both spotted it.

Jean noticed. "I know, right?" she said. "Thank God for Sarah Palin tanking McCain."

They glanced at each other.

"Yeah," Ororo agreed, "thank God."

_Wait, who?_

"Shotgun!"

Scott sighed. "I taught you shotgun."

"I still called it first!"

He took the backseat, respecting shotgun rules. Jean was the only one of them legally old enough to drive and had said she didn't mind taking everyone to the community college. Scott and Ororo were enrolled in the summer enrichment program—camp for teenagers. Jean, who was both too late to enroll and a high school student, was taking summer school.

She took out something that looked like Hank's cell phone and plugged it into her car's radio.

"Here," she said, passing the object to Ororo, "you can DJ."

"Oh… okay."

The screen was already lit up. Ororo tapped a button. It wasn't hard to figure out how to get to the list of albums, but she didn't know the name of a single Beatles album, let alone what was on _Should've Gone to Bed_ or _The Man Who_.

Those were both stupid names.

"Anything," Jean said, "whatever you like."

"Y'know, Scott's really more the music guy."

Scott reached forward for the phone, poking Ororo hard in the shoulder as he took it. _Thanks, traitor._

He chose something because he liked the title.

"Oh, cool, you like The Fray too?"

Ororo heard the hitch of panic in Scott's breath. It wasn't much, but they both knew he had stepped hard and fast into a pile of dog crap. She stifled a laugh—not at Scott's expense, but because what kind of name was _The Fray?_ Luckily Jean seemed to really like music, because she chatted happily about something called All at Once and Never Say Never. All she needed was a few vaguely positive sounds.

When they reached the college, Jean fished a parking pass from the glove box and attached it to her rear-view mirror.

"I think I'm in the auditorium for the morning," Ororo said.

"You are," Scott confirmed. "I checked the online maps, I think we're on Cooper Street—great, we are—the auditorium is between us and McKinley Hall. Jean, you're in McKinley 204, right? I'm in 331 if you want to walk over together."

Jean raised her eyebrows and Ororo winced. She was used to Scott. Sure, he needed a plan for everything, but she knew including her was his way of showing that he cared. Besides—she hadn't made such a plan.

"We're already going the same way, I guess," Jean agreed.

Ororo hadn't known what she wanted, when faced with her options for the summer. It was all supposed to be fun, but it was foreignness all over again. Hank helped her pick, but she had no idea what to expect.

The auditorium had a faintly dusty smell and spots on the floor by some of the seats, even though the aisles had been recently cleaned. It was a long walk down to the front row, but somehow she didn't think sitting in the back would be acceptable. There were a few people on the stage chatting. They looked to be about her age, maybe a little older.

Suddenly she wished she had taken computers with Scott. Who cared how boring it sounded? She didn't know how this worked. Scott did. He had gone to a regular American school. (Forty years ago, yes, but he had gone!)

Ororo considered taking a seat in the middle of the auditorium. Or was she supposed to be on the stage with the other kids? She didn't want to hide, but she definitely didn't want to be in front of people, either. Front row seemed to be the place, then.

At least, it was until the teacher arrived and called everyone onto the stage.

Some of the kids looked average, not so different from Jean or Scott. A couple wore tight, torn black clothes with dozens of safety pins in them, and one girl had shaved one side of her head. A boy had his nose pierced, along with both eyebrows.

"Okay," the teacher—" _Call me Steve"_ —said. "It looks like some of you know each other, some of you don't, so we're going to start with a game. This is called 'daft dictionary', has anyone played 'daft dictionary' before?"

Two hands went up.

Call-me-Steve pointed to one. "What's your name?"

"Katie."

"And how do you play 'daft dictionary'?"

"Um, two people suggest different words and you have to like, figure out what it means?"

"Exactly. So each of you take two pieces of paper…"

Strips of paper were passed around and the students were told to write a noun on each one. Great, theater class was also going to have sentence diagramming!

To Ororo's surprise, the game was fun. Call-me-Steve picked two pieces of paper out of a hat and randomly made a student define the new phrase.

"Vegetable club."

"How cavemen hunted wild cucumbers."

"Lightning shipment."

"When Zeus sends hate mail!"

"Widow hydrant."

"Um… like… something firefighters use to calm down hysterical women after their husbands just died?"

It was easy to laugh at the silly definitions.

"Zealot cellar," Call-me-Steve said, pointing at Ororo.

"Um… pass."

"No passes."

She glanced at the other students. Most were giving her encouraging looks. A few just looked disengaged, but they had spent the whole morning looking disengaged.

It was her _first day_. So far, no one had commented on her looks beyond someone saying she had cool hair—which was much better than she had hoped for. But now her chances of fitting in were gone. She glanced around. Leaving was an option. She could just quit. The Professor wouldn't like it, but nothing stopped her. Or see about switching to computers.

Or she could just say it.

"I don't that word."

"Oh—okay, how about…" Call-me-Steve drew two more papers. "Darkness lunchroom."

She considered for a moment. "Where light is eaten."

So she learned to pass for a semi-normal student at school.

Mornings were theater, which Ororo now knew meant she was supposed to come in and sit on the stage. She was given a speech to memorize and told everyone would perform on Monday.

Afternoons she had opted to take swimming while Scott was in judo. They were both too late to sign up for their first choice—both soccer programs had maxed out, and the wait lists were full.

"I don't know which of you is worse!" Jean griped, rolling down the windows.

She had a point. Ororo smelled like chlorine, which she thought was a nice smell, actually. Scott smelled like sweat—which was why Ororo automatically took the front seat.

Camp was four days a week, with an optional Friday neither of them had wanted. They had looked at the pages explaining "fun" stuff like modern dance, SAT Prep, and babysitting 101, and not even needed to say that they weren't interested. In fact their expressions begged for a reprieve and Professor Xavier didn't mention it further.

"Three more days," Ororo said.

"And then seven more weeks."

"Yes. And then that."


	19. We are not starting a tornado

The first Friday, Ororo was poking at her Cheerios, submerging them one by one and watching them pop back up, when Scott came into the kitchen. She half-watched as he poured a glass of milk and drained half of it in one gulp.

"You're gonna get brain freeze," she warned.

"Probably," he agreed.

He was running again.

Scott did that. Ran. Even in outer space. Some mornings she would wake up to find him sprinting up and down hallways in the Starjammer. He said it helped him adjust to new planets' gravities, too.

"You need a shower."

He nodded, drained the milk, and refilled his glass. He closed his eyes and took off his glasses. While he wiped the lenses on his shirt, his eyes stayed not just closed but squeezed shut tight.

"Scott."

"Yes?"

Now that he had his glasses on, she indicated the milk container.

"Shi—da—oops."

Chris Summers had a filthy mouth and the most he ever acknowledged swearing in front of the kids was to give them a conspiratorial look and a warning not to say it.

Charles Xavier had a rather different opinion of obscenity, one which Ororo and Scott were re-learning to respect.

"I'm already going," Scott said, scribbling a note.

"Hang on. I'll come with you."

"Where are you going?"

Neither of them had heard Jean arrive.

"Just into town," Scott said. "For milk."

"Can I come?"

They agreed, but decided that if everyone was going they needed to tell Professor Xavier and not just leave a note. They did eventually make it out, though, hold-ups aside.

It wasn't even ten and already sweltering. Scott hadn't changed his clothes after running, but it didn't matter. The heat meant everyone was quickly damp with sweat.

Ororo called up a breeze. She caught a few leaves in it, spinning them around.

"Ororo," Scott warned.

"No one's around."

"Ororo."

She didn't put down the leaves, but she did notice that they stopped obeying her. The wind kept blowing, but the leaves… she pushed harder.

The leaves twitched.

Ororo frowned—then she glanced at Jean, who had a hand up and a look of satisfaction. She was holding the leaves telekinetically.

Ororo called up a stronger wind, forcing Jean to pull the leaves rather than hold them.

"We are _not_ starting a tornado." Scott didn't leave much room for commentary.

Ororo settled for tackling Jean. They both landed in the dirt and the leaves fluttered to the ground, but Ororo was a clear winner here: Jean was facedown with an arm wrenched behind her back, while Ororo sat on her.

She could feel Scott rolling his eyes.

"You've made your point," he said.

Ororo stood, brushing off her knees, and Scott offered a hand to Jean.

"Thanks…"

"You're welcome. And you two shouldn't be using your gifts like that, anyone could've seen you!"

Ororo rolled her eyes and called him Professor Junior, but silently, she knew he had a point. Her powers could almost be explained as simply weather patterns, but using her powers had prompted Jean to do the same, and Jean's powers were less inconspicuous.

After a few minutes' awkward silence, Jean suggested, "Anyone for 'twenty questions'?"

Ororo glanced at Scott. Should they? They knew how to play, of course, but Jean's references would be foreign to them.

"Usually the only thing me and Ororo both know is Bible stories," Scott said. "I don't think we could play very well."

"Oh. Really?"

"He was raised Catholic," Ororo began.

Scott added, "I got better."

She knew Scott hated religion, but hadn't pushed him about why. She wasn't religious, either, but she didn't have a problem with the idea.

"And I was in a Catholic group home for a while. So we both know the basics. You learn interesting English from Catholic foster care." She had yet to need the words 'homily' and 'transubstantiation' in her everyday life. She knew them, but that knowledge had yet to prove useful.

"Where are you from originally?"

"Cairo. I lived in Kenya for a while, too. I was…"

"A homeless thief?" Scott suggested.

"A homeless thief!" Ororo agreed. "Along with a lot of other kids. When we lost our home, I just… ran away. Hitchhiking a lot, to get that far."

Successfully changing the subject, she realized she didn't know what the Maasai were like today—but Jean probably didn't, either.

None of the young mutants looked particularly presentable, but they didn't look too bad, and Ororo had noticed that these days 'casual' was more, well, casual.

No one argued the idea of buying junk food, either. It was too hot not to get ice cream. Scott grabbed a packet of Twinkies, too.

"Isn't drumsticks part of a chicken?" Ororo asked.

"Yes," Scott confirmed.

"But it's also an ice cream," Jean said.

"Duh."

Scott nudged her.

She ignored him and tore open her ice cream.

By the time they reached the gate, everyone had eaten their ice cream. Scott tore into his Twinkies.

"You're still hungry?" Ororo asked.

Scott's stomach growled in response.

"I'm jealous," Jean said.

Scott offered her a Twinkie.

"Not of that," she said, but she took it. She let her hand bump Scott's and rest there for a moment, until he jerked away and looked at the ground.

Jean offered the Twinkie to Ororo.

"She doesn't like Twinkies," Scott said.

Ororo nodded. "He's right."

"I am aware of your feelings regarding Twinkies."

She paused a moment, very aware of Scott's attention on her as she waited. Only while Jean was in the process of taking a bite did Ororo explain her feelings.

"Given the basic shape and the white goo inside, it's basically a cake penis."

The girls were still giggling about it when they reached the mansion.

Scott was relieved to hear Professor Xavier's voice in his head, saying when he had a moment they needed to talk. He wasn't afraid he might be in trouble: why would he be? No, he was just glad to have a moment to step away from the girls' giggling.

He knocked and waited to be invited in before opening the study door.

"You wanted to see me, Professor?"

He motioned for Scott to come in and sit down.

"How are you, Scott?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you prepared for Hank's visit this weekend?"

Scott nodded. "I know he needs to take some of my blood. It makes me feel… weird… I won't deny that. He'll take it on Sunday so it's fresh when he gets it back to his lab and I feel like I'm not me anymore and I'm just a body, a home for blood… but Hank… sees me. You're right. I couldn't take it with anybody else."

There were certain professionals Scott struggled to respect. Social workers were at the top of the list. He had spent so many years in the orphanage, in that horrible place, and it was their job to protect him when he was just a defenseless kid. He still resented the people he felt should have saved him.

But doctors were on the list, too. They were a necessary evil. They poked and prodded and cut into people. They made his skin crawl. It was just different with Hank—because he was Hank. He was different.

"You've grown up a lot in the past few months."

"I… I had to."

Didn't he?

Scott wasn't sure how these things were meant to work. Was it strange that he had grown up away from the people who raised him?

"You misunderstand. I'm proud of the man you're becoming. There's another matter—do you remember, that last summer, working in the library?"

"Volunteering," Scott corrected.

It had never been a job. Back in 1964, he went to the library and asked Mae, the librarian, if he could help out sometimes. As many hours as he showed up, she gave him work. He read shelves, shelved books, dusted, attached jackets… anything. Everything. Mae had done him a favor keeping him so busy. And when he showed up shaking and about to cry, she only asked him one question: _do you want to talk about it?_ She respected when he said he didn't know how.

"Mae didn't think so," Charles replied. "She was very impressed with you." He opened a drawer and took out a folder, which he offered to Scott.

With a curious look, Scott took papers from the folder. He looked through them. Slowly, he shook his head. "This is… mine?"

"It is."

"I was only there a few weeks! That's…"

"You were there months, and it's been in index funds, which—there's been some investment," he simplified.

"But… I mean… this can't be mine."

"It's yours. There's a stipend associated with foster care; I don't want or need it to care for you, so yours will be going into this account. It's yours, Scott."

Scott wasn't sure how to manage that information. He had never thought of himself as someone who had anything, and a lot of objections bubbled up—about how this was impossible, wasn't for him.

He settled on, "Why now?"

"I could hold onto it until you turn eighteen," Professor Xavier agreed, "but it's better for you to start thinking about these things now."

Scott had to admit, he didn't actually know much about managing money. He used to save up some back in the orphanage, but it was only ever change picked up in the street, and never amount to more than something to eat or socks without holes in them. But it wasn't even the fact of money so much as the responsibility settling over him now.

"Even my—even Chris didn't trust me that much."

It felt, he thought, like growing up: a bit good and a bit scary all at once.


	20. Barely Less Naked

Ororo should have been practicing her speech, which was why she was going swimming. Obviously. She needed to work on her speech for school, but she also had a swimming class! It was studying!

She had prepared far more arguments than she ended up needing.

"Can I come?" Jean asked.

"Sure."

"Scott?"

"He doesn't swim," Ororo replied, at the same time as Scott said, "I really need to study." They looked at each other, both realizing they had just made it really, painfully obvious they were telling a lie. Only Ororo was. Scott needed to study and he had gone swimming a couple of times, but never when anyone but Ororo could see him.

Jean looked between the two of them, her expression making clear that she, too, knew they weren't telling her the truth.

"Okay, umm, I'll just go change."

They headed outside a moment later. The world was reliably sweltering, New York in July.

"How's your class?" Ororo asked.

Jean was taking a class she could use for college credit in a few years, with real grades, so her homework and studying were somewhat more rigorous.

"It's really interesting. This week was cells and cell division, and we're starting on tissue and bone next week. It's the best science class I've ever taken. My classes at school are… they're just a little slow."

Ororo nodded, although she didn't understand. Her education had primarily been here, and the school was so small that Charles, Hank, and Ruth could tailor education to each student's needs. She hadn't studied math with Scott because he needed more review; she hadn't studied English with him because his reading level was miles above hers.

Jean sighed.

"I don't want to go back in the fall. I already know that."

"You're going back?" Ororo thought Jean was here like the rest of them had been, staying here for the school year.

Jean nodded. "I'm hoping I can convince my parents otherwise. My powers aren't in control here either, but it's better."

"What do you mean?"

"When you lost control, didn't it scare people? Before you came here?"

Ororo looked away while she considered that question. The short answer was no. She wasn't particularly private with much of her history, but for that time—for her one big mistake.

"They called me a goddess," she said. "When you live in the desert, it means everything to control the rain. But even though I controlled my power, I didn't understand it. I can create wind, but the rain…" She shook her head. No, she couldn't create rain. "I thought I was helping my people when I brought them rain. I didn't know I was stealing it from somewhere else. They didn't have enough water. People, well, they died."

"Oh… well that puts my experiences to shame, actually. But it is different here. My parents—they just don't understand. I'm trying to control my powers, but here, when I can't, it's okay. It's easier to learn from your mistakes when you don't need to be afraid of them."

Ororo didn't know what to say to that. It was true. She didn't know what growing up in the U.S. was like, but she understood that Jean had struggled with her mutation.

"I'm jealous of your control," Jean said.

Understandably.

"I'm jealous of your height," Ororo returned.

"I'm jealous of your curves."

"That makes sense, I have nice curves."

They both laughed. It was nice, Ororo thought. She liked a joke as much as the next person (barring Scott's silly forking jokes, which were too silly), but she liked having someone to laugh with even more.

They didn't say anything until they reached the pond.

"I didn't even know this was here!"

"Yeah."

Ororo nearly added that Hank used to bring them out here for science lessons sometimes—he could make leaves or water into a scientific art form! But she couldn't explain that. She wasn't sure how long they were supposed to claim they had been here. Charles was her foster father for over a year, but Jean knew Ororo hadn't been here for that long.

She slipped off her shoes and started to unbutton her shirt.

"Don't you have a suit?" Jean asked.

"Suit—ah," Ororo realized, noticing Jean's red-and-white striped top. If you could call it a top. There was a name for those little swimsuits that only covered the fun bits. What was it…

Not that it mattered. She understood the visual: Jean in her denim shorts and whatever-it-was swimsuit top, all cream skin and freckles; Ororo with a pair of shorts, the shirt at her feet, and an undershirt half-off.

"Um, no, I mean—n-not that it matters," Jean stammered.

She was not coping well with Ororo's foreignness, something that was sometimes painfully obvious.

"Do you mind?"

"No—no big deal, right?"

"Yeah."

She didn't understand, really. Jean was barely less naked than Ororo. If anything, she drew more attention to herself—which was fine, but why was being naked so different?

It was something that stopped mattering once they were in the water.

Ororo took a breath and ducked under the water. When she popped up again, she shook her head to clear some of the water—but not too much. Her soaking hair kept her pleasantly cool, but she already felt the sun getting to the part in her hair.

They swam for a while, then stretched out on the grass to dry in the sun.

"So…" Jean ventured, "what's the story on you and Scott?"

Ororo lifted her head to look at Jean. "The story?"

Jean grinned. "I'm not gonna tell," she said, "I just wonder. I know you two share a room."

"I have my own room. We only sleep together sometimes."

"So you do—"

"Not that kind!" Ororo cried. "Everyone thinks that, but we're not. He's my brother."

"You're not together?"

"Not like that." She considered for a moment. They weren't a couple, but they were friends. She didn't like when people upset her friends.

Jean had laid down again, enjoying the heat.

"You're getting pink," Ororo warned.

"Dammit, already?" Jean pulled her shirt over her head. "There are times I hate being this pale. Um, no offense."

"How is that offensive?"

"Well… because…"

"Jean, it's okay to say that your skin is lighter than mine. That's a fact, not something that bothers me. How you are with Scott is less okay."

Ororo didn't understand that about her. Jean had seemed so uncomfortable when she mentioned being pale when that was simply a fact, but she didn't leave Scott alone when he was clearly uncomfortable. She had practically been melting over him earlier. Why was she so obsessed with looks and so willing to ignore deeds?

Jean paused, genuinely confused. "I thought you said you weren't together?"

"I don't need to be together with someone to care about them. I know Scott's weird, but you don't need to be mean—"

"Wait," Jean interrupted, shaking her head. Her wet ponytail drizzled on her shoulders. "I like Scott. He's nice. That's what you say about bland people, but I don't mean it like that, I mean he's genuinely nice. I'm not being mean—I'm not trying to be mean. I really like him, you know?"

Ororo raised an eyebrow. How could she know?

"I'm just trying to be friendly."

"Jean, you cannot seriously think that's helping!"

"Most guys—"

"Most guys aren't my brother!"

Jean jerked back, startled. "Okay."

Ororo shook her head. She had been harsher than she needed to be. She thought about Ruth, who was always harsh, but always loving. Ruth could express herself without being mean, and it made Ororo wonder… was she mean?

"I didn't mean it like that. Just—could you try to talk to him? Scott needs people to deal with him directly."

"Okay. Sure—I'll do that. I really want this to work, Ororo, and I can see how much Scott matters to you."

"And to Charles," Ororo added, with only a hint of bitterness to her tone.

"We're still friends, right?" Jean asked.

Ororo had not been sure they were friends to begin with. They were becoming friends, sure, but didn't friends mean more than sort of liking someone? Weren't you supposed to trust them? And trust, with Ororo, needed to be earned.

She didn't think Jean meant friends like that, though, so she said, "Yes. Sure. I mean... who else am I going to hang with, right?"

Jean laughed and threw a handful of grass at her.

Ororo called up the wind to send it back.


	21. Good News

Annie sat at the back, curled up in one of those uncomfortable rec center chairs, a notebook perched on her knees. Ostensibly she was drawing. Mostly she was just scribbling spiral upon spiral, wondering how much juice her ballpoint had left.

"My name is Alex and I'm an alcoholic…"

She tilted her head just slightly, eyes widening. She had come to four meetings before. This was the first time she heard her grandpa say something more than reassurances to others.

"I've had issues with alcohol for a long time. Probably the second, third time I got sober, in my twenties, I had been pretty far out of hand. The war in Vietnam was… I had lost some good friends, and one of them, he was nineteen when he died. I was seein' it every time I closed my eyes, so I got out of my head. My fifteen-year-old kid brother would show up at bars at two in the morning, clean the bottles out of my dresser… and I just thought, hey. He's such a nerd.

"Scott was in foster care. I had been in foster care, too, and back in the '50s, and my foster-parents were assholes."

There were a few chuckles and one gently admonishing, "Alex."

"Sorry, Paul. But they were pretty bad. There wasn't so much oversight back then—I hear they check in today. Scott's foster parents, they were different, they loved him. They put up with me—I was living with them. They put up with me because he loved me.

"It was hard to see all the time. You know, why did he get a real mom and dad? Why was he lovable? Why was he looking to Charles, to his dad, when I was there and I was his big brother? When I wasn't wasted."

Alex delivered the line in a way that earned more scattered laughter.

"Scott's talking to me for the first time in years. I don't blame him for that. I've hurt him. A lot, something I think you all understand. I'm not the same person now and I'm happy to have him back in my life. My wife is undergoing chemotherapy and we have good news for the first time in years."

That much Annie knew. Mom had cried. Grandma and Grandpa had cried. She had gone upstairs and smoked.

"So why do I want a drink?" Alex asked. "I don't know. I'm happy, but I'm struggling. And every day I need that reminder—usually several reminders. But I get through."

For the first time, Annie watched him carefully during the serenity prayer. Did her grandfather actually believe all of that? She knew Grandma believed in God, but her mom said Grandpa never went to church unless Grandma made him. Now he looked like the prayer actually meant something to him.

Who was granting him the serenity, then?

She helped put away the folding chairs after everyone left, tried a cookie and decided she could have just eaten the lint. It was a Wednesday, but may as well have been any other day. With Grandpa retired and Annie out of school for the summer, days had less meaning.

No one needed to tell her to help clear up. She was used to it by now.

She didn't say anything until she was buckling her seatbelt. Grandpa liked seatbelts. They made him laugh—something about Hank, she wasn't sure.

"Is that all true, what you said in there?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Uncle Charles is Scott's dad?"

"Yes, he is."

"So… he's kind of like your dad."

"No. Well, kind of."

"Because he's your brother's dad, then…"

"I was a grown-up when I met Uncle Charles, but he's looked after me, yeah."

Annie thought about that. She had never been told these stories. As she learned it, her great-uncle died in the plane crash that killed his parents. Uncle Charles was someone her grandfather met during the war, something she was starting to question.

She chewed her lip for a while. She knew about them, certainly knew about Hank. She had never really wondered about it before, but Hank and Charles were in quite different spheres to her grandfather. They were academics, yes, but also…

"Hey Grandpa, are you a mutant?"

"Why do you ask?"

"'Cause we learned about Vietnam in school, and how students could get exemptions from being drafted, so Hank wouldn't have been, and someone like… you know, with a wheelchair… wouldn't have been drafted. Why are both your friends from that time mutants?"

"Well, first of all, Hank wasn't a student, he had already graduated, but he was working for some higher-ups at the CIA. And Charles wasn't in the wheelchair yet."

Annie scowled. That wasn't an answer. That was him not answering her question.

So she asked about something else on her mind: "How about Scott? Why doesn't he age?"

"Scott ages, he just ages very slowly. He's—this is going to sound implausible, Annie, but it's the truth. Your great-grandfather is alive."

"Okay…" Implausible, sure, but not impossible. She believed that. She guessed not aging could be a mutant power, too, which explained her grandfather's fifteen-year-old brother. Or maybe his original brother died and this was his still-alive father's recent son. That was weird but again, not impossible.

"He… this is difficult to explain."

"Look, I'm not a kid, just tell me."

"He's a space pirate."

Annie sighed in disgust. "Right. Your dad's Han Solo. I was asking you a serious question, why can't you for once tell me the truth instead of stupid bedtime stories?"

"I am telling you the truth."

They had reached home now, and Annie didn't bother to respond to that. She stormed out of the car and upstairs to her room. Some things she knew about her family, like that this used to be her uncle's bedroom when he was a kid. When they moved in, her mom couldn't bear the thought of sleeping in here, kind of like Annie couldn't bear the thought of sleeping in the same bedroom as her mom. Problem solved.

And she knew that. The rest…

Obviously, Grandpa wasn't telling her the truth, because there was no such thing as space pirates. She used to believe the stories her grandpa told her, but that was when she was a dumb kid, when her mom used to leave her here for a weekend sometimes. Then her grandpa's stories were cool.

He used to tell her that he had been a superhero. A warrior. That he and his friends with their magic powers saved the world. Obviously it was made-up. As a baby, she thought it was the truth. Then she realized "magic powers" and "superheroes", that was all a metaphor. He was a war hero. That's what he meant.

Except…

He put Uncle Charles in his stories. Later, Annie learned that yes, the guy was weird and kind of creepy and not a real uncle, but he read minds like Alex said. He was a mutant. And his friend Raven, she was real, too. She had been on tv, changing shape just like he claimed.

Annie hesitated. By the time she realized all this, she was sitting by the window, ready to light up. She realized, though, the one thing her grandpa didn't directly answer.

She left her lighter and unlit joint in a Dixie cup that served as an ashtray. She found her mom and grandmother in the kitchen and backed away before they spotted her, heading back to her grandparents' room—empty—and checking the living room—also empty—before finally finding who she wanted.

Alex was in the garage, the hood of his car propped open. She didn't know enough to guess what he was up to besides general tinkering.

She shut the door behind her.

"Are you a mutant, Grandpa?"

You didn't think of mutants that way. Mutants were on the news in weird costumes, with strange-colored hair or eyes or skin, mugshots on Fox. Mutants were not regular-looking old men with oil on their hands.

Sure, she knew at least one old man who was a mutant, but Charles wasn't normal anyway.

"Yes, I am."

"You can, like, read minds?"

"It's easier to show you."

He glanced around, then indicated an old paint can. A moment later he sent a small but very obvious bolt of red light smashing into it.

Annie raised her eyebrows. "Um."

"Holy shit?"

"Yeah… pretty much."

"Does Mom know?"

Alex nodded. "Your mom—she's known since she was a little girl."

_Little girl._

So she had known before she was Annie's age.

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Annie, your mom—there were… circumstances. She needed to know."

Annie huffed. "It runs in families, doesn't it?" she asked.

"It… can."

"Mom?"

Alex shook his head. "Your mother is human, but she may be a carrier. If your father was a mutant, there's a chance you are, too. Or you might be a mutant in your own right. It's complicated, kiddo. I just don't know."

She thought about that. Annie did not know her father, and genetics was about the extent of her interest in him—like, was she going to lose her sight or hair or mind? Was she going to gain powers?

"But you are."

A nod.

"Not Grandma."

"No, not your grandmother."

Annie hesitated to ask the next question. She hesitated, but she had to ask. She had to know. And what were the chances of her grandpa talking about this again? "And Uncle Scott?"

He looked sadder than she knew how to understand, sad enough that she regretted asking, but he nodded.


	22. Unnecessarily Dramatic

Dear Charles,

I'm confused and I'm hurt and I don't know who to talk to about any of it.

Things keep getting more complicated. Life is more complicated. Everything. The GED, the SAT, phones, cars. Music only got worse. You would think that after enough of this, people deserve to have a break.

Who do I talk to about this? How can I when I'm still putting the pieces together myself? It's obvious and not, it's confusing.

When you brought Jean to live here, I know she was supposed to be like a sister to us. That takes time and I meant to be patient. I swear, I wanted her to be a part of whatever this is, of our family.

It hurts.

That's the part I didn't expect. It hurts to see her, it hurts to talk to her, just being near her is like I'm burning from the inside out. Like I might throw up.

I'm in love.

Unnecessarily dramatic, I know, but what other words can I use?

I'm falling in love with Jean.

And I know I shouldn't, and I'm trying to stop it only I can't.

It's not just love. It is. I think about her all the time, about doing things to make her happy, make her like me, and that feels like—you and Ruth had more. I know love is more.

Besides love, though, which maybe I am falling into, besides thinking about how great everything she does is, I think about her body.

I can NEVER show you this letter.

She has these freckles on her shoulders and the way her shirts stretch and the way she eats ice cream should be against the law. I feel like I am alive twice over and I just want to touch her and I know she would never see me that way. I know that. But I don't REALLY know it, do I? There is a chance, even a splinter of a chance. Right?

I don't know what to do. Jean is how she is, and that's more than fine. And I am how I am, which is not someone she could see that way.

I feel amazing. And wonderful. And aching because it will only ever be feelings.

I don't know what to do and I can't talk to anybody about this!

Love from, 1964


	23. Gelato

"You all right?" Ororo asked.

"I'm fine," Scott replied.

Ororo and Jean shared a glance.

They had been ready to leave, and it was an odd day when Ororo was ready to go _before_ Scott. He was easy enough to find. Now Ororo and Jean stood outside the bathroom door, listening to Scott cough and vomit.

"I can hear you puking," Ororo called, half in concern, half a little sibling calling her brother out on a blatant lie.

"Scott, have you eaten anything?" Jean asked.

"No!"

"At all?"

"Not since—" and he stopped to be sick again.

Jean sighed. She turned to Ororo. "Try to make him drink some water. I'll get Professor Xavier."

"And tell him what?"

"That Scott's sick and being a total boy about it."

"You use hairpins, right?"

Jean nodded.

"I need a couple."

She frowned a little, clearly not thinking this was the appropriate time, but she slipped the pins out and handed them to Ororo.

The lock was more aesthetic than function. A blind man could have picked it easily and Ororo had it open in a matter of seconds. She wasn't surprised to find Scott on the floor. He hadn't gotten dressed yet; he was shivering in his pajamas.

"You look awful." That time she wasn't teasing, just observing. Sympathetic, even. She grabbed a towel to wrap around his shoulders, then a wad of toilet paper. "Look at me." He did, and she wiped the vomit off his mouth.

"You okay?" Ororo murmured.

Scott nodded. "Fine," he said.

No, he wasn't.

"Sikorsky would shock you into next week for even thinking about going to school this way."

"Sikorsky's not here."

He wasn't—but Professor Xavier was, and he decided that Scott would not be going to school, not in this state.

"Feel better, sick-o," Ororo said, giving Scott's hand a squeeze.

"Do you need anything?" Jean asked.

Scott started to shake his head, then paused and threw up.

The seriousness of seeing him sick wore off about the time they left the gate. It mattered, of course, but they knew Professor Xavier would look after him.

Ororo knew Scott's pride would be hurt worse than anything else. He didn't like people seeing him weak. She thought he was too sensitive about these things—everybody got sick sometimes, it wasn't a personal failing.

She held her hand out the window on the road, letting the air lift it and push it in parabolas.

"You know if we get pulled over I'm gonna get a ticket," Jean commented, glancing at Ororo. She was not wearing a seatbelt.

Ororo gave her a look. "So keep your eyes on the road and we won't get pulled over," she retorted, and they both laughed.

"So, what's the deal with your GED?" Jean asked. "You're retaking it next month?"

"Hopefully," Ororo said. "When Hank thinks I'm ready."

"What happens if you don't have it by September?"

The thought had occurred to Ororo as well. Professor Xavier had been quite clear that young people were required to be in school if they hadn't graduated or earned a GED. So were they going to enroll in school? Or be home schooled? Was home school still a thing?

She shrugged. "I don't know. I trust the Professor with that stuff." Mostly because she didn't know or want to learn how to approach it herself. "Have you talked to him about staying on?"

"Not yet. Maybe I should get a GED, too."

"Don't you dare!"

"Why, what's wrong with getting a GED?"

"Nothing. But you'd do it faster than me."

They had reached the school now.

Ororo and Jean parted ways, as they did every morning—Ororo to practice speaking from the front of her throat (she didn't understand the concept, but did her best), Jean to study… one of the systems. Neuro-limbo-cardial. Or something.

Maybe there was a reason she needed to retake the science section of her GED!

They met up at lunch, then again at the end of the day.

"Hey, why don't we stop in town?" Jean suggested as they headed toward the car. "There's this really great gelato place."

"Gelato?" Ororo hadn't heard the term.

"Yeah, it's like ice cream."

"Sure. Sounds good."

It turned out, gelato was a smoother, slightly warmer ice cream. Jean and Ororo sat outside, perched at an illogically tall table.

Mid-afternoon meant a sort of swelter that had tempted them both to sit inside, but there was only so much you could say in an ice cream shop. At least out here they had mostly privacy.

Which hid the utter awkwardness of spluttering with your lips pressed to a scoop of ice cream.

"You had to do it, too?" she asked, wiping her mouth on a paper napkin. It wasn't the really bad sort of paper napkin, but not a good one, either, and she still felt sticky.

Jean nodded. "That stupid sponge game! I can't believe he inflicted my game on someone else."

"Your game? No, no, I started taming the wind on that game! _You_ were inflicted on—were inflicted by… er…"

"Afflicted with?"

"Afflicted. Yes. See, this is why you don't get a cone," Jean added as Ororo licked a drip of gelato from her thumb.

Ororo shrugged. "Enjoy eating your cup and spoon," she replied. You could have ice cream or ice cream and a cookie. Who chose just the ice cream?!

"I don't know why we haven't done this before," Jean said, "it's kind of perfect after school. Reminds you that it's still summer."

"Scott wouldn't like it," Ororo reasoned.

She did not mean that she didn't like stopping because Scott wouldn't approve. No, she thought that was too much entirely. But she knew her brother. He wouldn't be able to do a thing without thinking about it, considering each possible outcome. Not doing this, not stopping, it was just simpler.

Since the girls were on their own today, they didn't need to worry about that. Maybe, Ororo reasoned, it was easier for her. She hadn't much liked down back in the 1960s, but Scott knew the place better. For her, it hadn't changed in any meaningful way.

"What's the story on you two?" Jean asked.

"What do you mean? I told you we're not dating."

"Yeah, but—what's the story? You said Professor Xavier was your foster father?"

Ororo nodded. "Mhm." At least Jean wasn't asking details. The details were… complicated.

"And you've lived with him before?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"We…"

Scott's biological dad accidentally kidnapped them in his spaceship.

They weren't supposed to talk about it. Ororo wasn't sure how she even could. The story sounded so crazy and Jean didn't know her well enough to take her word for it.

"I thought you wouldn't have been moved unless…"

 _Unless there was abuse._ And then why would they have been returned? Not that it mattered. They both knew that Charles Xavier was a good person. He didn't hurt anyone, let alone a child.

Ororo took a bite of cone to avoid saying anything. The truth was, she didn't know enough about the foster care system to build a convincing lie. She had been in one orphanage back in the '60s, and not for very long.

She swallowed.

"Hey, do we have time to stop at the bookstore?"

"Yeah. Sure." Jean hopped to the ground and picked up her backpack. "So what's the verdict?"

"On?"

"On gelato."

"I'm not sure. We'll have to try again to be sure."


	24. Regulations

Scott's mouth tasted sour and old. He winced at himself. He hadn't been awake long that morning, only a few hours, but he spent them hugging the toilet, puking and trying to swallow water that only came right back. He had been too exhausted to brush his teeth, just crawled back into bed.

Now he pushed away the covers. The floor lurched, but only a little. He stumbled to the bathroom and brushed, then flossed, then brushed again. His mouth felt raw and cold, mint with the faintest lingering tones of bile.

He had missed a day of school. Scott wasn't certain of the time, but he knew he had missed school. It was afternoon at least.

He padded to the kitchen and dropped two slices of bread in the toaster. His body felt achy and un-put together, but he was hungry. That was a good sign.

"I thought I heard you awake."

Scott glanced over. "Hi, Professor."

"Feeling better?"

He nodded. "Yes-thank you for asking. And for looking after me."

"Of course. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Scott smiled. He had missed that, and wasn't sure anything could feel more overwhelmingly like home. Tea was Professor Xavier's response to everything. He had made a cup of tea when Scott was nervous or cold or upset. Scott firmly believed that if he chose to go to college, the day his acceptance letter arrived they would have tea to celebrate. He wouldn't want it any other way.

"Yes, please."

He grabbed his toast and took a seat at the table. He could make passable tea—well, it was still _tea_ , he couldn't change that, but he could brew it okay. Professor Xavier made tea like it was an art form and Scott enjoyed observing.

"How are you feeling? I don't mean physically—with the changes of the past decades."

"It's—it's different," Scott acknowledged, "but mostly it's the people. I'm happy for Hank, and Alex—I know, his wife is ill, but he loves her. The way he looks at her, it's like—I'm not sure I know," he concluded, lying.

He knew exactly how Alex looked, because Scott had seen the expression before:

_It took weeks for Scott to move from violently hostile toward his father, to passively hostile, to hateful, to resentful, to tolerant. He and Chris still had a lot of ground to cover and Scott had been clear that he would never call the man 'dad', but they could be in the same room. They could hold conversations._

_That was when Chris showed Scott the locket his mother used to wear. Inside were two very old photos, one each of Scott and Alex._

_"How did you meet her?"_

_"It was at a dance. Katherine was sitting alone, watching couples out on the floor, so I asked her to dance with me. I thought I was doing her a favor, this poor strange girl all by herself. But Katherine…" Chris chuckled and shook his head. "She just didn't care what everyone else thought. She brought joy into every corner of our lives. She sang. She painted flowers down the hallway. She taught you to read with Kipling and Wilfred Owen."_

_The look on his face then, Chris didn't see his son anymore. He didn't see their surroundings, didn't see anything but the happy memories of someone he believed for a moment was not completely lost._

"His birthday's coming up," Scott said, speaking of his brother. Alex would be nearly seventy now. "Do you think I could go visit? Not for that," he added quickly, seeing a clear 'no' in the Professor's expression, "and of course not during school. I mean, I'll ask Alex first, of course. And I know things are busy for him, I know he has Daisy and Annie, he might not want me making things more complicated, I'm not—only if he wants to see me."

The tea was ready now, and the cup placed in front of Scott was decidedly conciliatory.

"I'm sorry, Scott, but it's not that simple."

Scott thought about that for a moment. "Alex says he goes to meetings now," he said, remembering how Professor Xavier used to give Alex ultimatums about pre-mission behavior. If Alex wanted to be one of the X-Men, he needed to be sober.

He wasn't unsympathetic, either! Scott hadn't liked Alex when he was drunk.

"It's not that. Alex lives in Massachusetts and you're a ward of the state in New York. There are regulations in place…" He went on to explain about caseworker approval, and that all of them would have to visit Alex, that Scott couldn't go on his own, although it was not out of the question to arrange.

By the time the explanations finished, Scott sort of wished he was on the bathroom floor again. Throwing up felt better than realizing that his messed up life had struck again. Officially, legally, Scott and Alex weren't related. How could it be explained? Not that the state needed more ammunition, apparently, for keeping him separate from his brother.

"I'm sorry," Professor Xavier said again, and it still didn't help.

Scott shook his head. "No, it, uh… I understand." At least, he understood that the fault didn't lie with either of them. "But it's Alex. You know he wouldn't let anything happen to me. You know how much he means to me."

"I do, and if I could make this possible for you, I would."

"You're a telepath, Professor, couldn't you do something?"

"Scott." There was a warning note in his voice. "We don't use our gifts to avoid inconvenient laws."

"Then why do we have them?"

"I don't know," Professor Xavier admitted. " _Why_ has never been my area of expertise, but I rather doubt it's to break the law."

"I've followed a lot of laws."

That was true, and they both knew what he meant. There were regulations for foster children that needn't have applied to Scott and Ororo. They had done it anyway.

Ororo hadn't cared. The physical was routine. The dentist said she might want to think about braces, and once the concept was explained, Ororo laughed and said she didn't care if her teeth were a little crooked. She made up a story when she talked to the counselor—Scott knew, because she told him that night, whispered in the dark.

He had hated it. He didn't like doctors, clinics, or showing his scars to anyone; the whole experience was humiliating and degrading. Dentists were even creepier; you had to just sit there while a stranger stuck their fingers in your mouth. (Unlike Ororo, he had a cavity.) He fumbled through the counseling session so messily he was surprised he hadn't needed to go back.

They were all nice people. The doctor, the dentist, the counselor, and the social worker were all friendly. Scott knew that. He just wanted to be left alone and it was their job, in great detail, to do otherwise.

And that was why, after all the poking and prodding, Ororo crawled into his bed. It wasn't for her. It was so he didn't have to be alone after a day that left him feeling torn open.

Scott could not help feeling that he had put the hours in. He had followed the laws that said his body and mind belonged to Westchester County. He deserved, now, to go and see his brother.

"I can always speak to Alex about coming for a visit."

Scott nodded, thinking they both knew this was a slim possibility for a while. Alex's wife was improving but nonetheless not well, his daughter was either brilliant or crazy, his granddaughter was… actually, Scott thought Annie could do with a bit of help from Professor Xavier, but she thought he was a "creepy old weird dude".

In fairness to Annie, Professor Xavier was very old.

"Being powerful is complicated, more complicated than one might think. If we use our gifts to flout the law, it seems we think ourselves better than others. Mutants and humans have a volatile relationship as it is; it's important that we respect the same rules."

Scott didn't like it, but he knew Professor Xavier was right.

"Shouldn't Ororo and Jean be home by now?"

"They stopped in town. Jean texted."

Scott wasn't clear on this whole "texting" thing. Everyone sent these garbled half-messages that sometimes, if you were lucky, vaguely resembled what they meant to say. It was weird, like a lot of things in the future.

The present.

Whatever.

The words didn't matter—and that was perhaps the hardest part. Words were what Scott had, words and the ideas inside them. He had always been a reader. It was where he excelled, what allowed him to pass any of the GED. But whatever they called this time period, they were still here. Future, or present, or would-be or is, it was what it was.

The words didn't matter.

So what did that make him?


	25. Bluff

"I can't believe we're doing this," Scott said. He turned to Jean and shared a private sort of smile. "We don't win this game."

Jean rolled her eyes. "I haven't even finished dealing!" she replied. "You can't call the score before I've even dealt the cards." She was, in fact, still shuffling. She took her attention away from Scott to focus on the cards, lifting them into the air. Initially she had thought to make them scatter at random, but that was too much, the randomness. So she split them into two piles, separated each card, and brought them back together.

After she finished her telekinetic shuffling, she floated the deck into her hands to deal.

Scott, meanwhile, glanced at Ororo. "You think we stand a chance?" he asked.

She just laughed and reached into the bowl in the center of the table. "Did you eat all the chips already?"

"Um…"

"You're like a garbage disposal lately!"

Scott grabbed the bowl and went into the kitchen to refill it.

The first round of the game, Jean started with an ace, and Ororo followed with two kings.

"Bluff," Scott said.

"Who would bluff on their first move?" Jean asked.

Scott turned over the cards: a seven and a three. If he had been a betting man, he would have put down money that Ororo had kings in her hand.

"Twerp," she said, taking the cards.

"Gnat."

It was Thursday night, start of the weekend for Ororo and Scott. Jean had a lab session on Friday, but she enjoyed her labs, so it was practically a weekend for her as well. They sat outside; the wind conveniently kept from blowing their cards away, something Ororo could do with barely a thought.

As the game progressed, Scott again called Ororo's bluff, and Ororo called Jean's a few times.

"You know," Jean realized, gathering the cards for the third time, "no one's called him."

"He hasn't bluffed," Ororo replied. "One three."

"How do you know?"

"How do I know every time she bluffs?" Scott reasoned. "Two fours."

Jean's turn: "One five."

"Two sixes. And it's not _every_ time," Ororo said.

"Okay. One seven."

"It's not!"

"Three eights," Jean said.

"One nine."

"Two tens."

"Two jacks."

"Three queens."

"Sh—darn. Pass."

The girls objected at the same time: "There's no passing!"/"You can't pass!"

Scott sighed. "But I don't… okay. Two kings."

"Bluff!" they chorused.

"I was first," Ororo said.

Jean glanced at their respective stacks of cards. Scott's was smallest, with Jean and Ororo about tied, but Scott would be losing if he had to take the 19 cards in the pile. It was more than a third of the deck—not by much, but more than a third.

She nodded. "You were first."

Ororo grinned like a wolf as she leaned forward…

Took the two cards on top of the pile…

And froze.

Then she shouted something Jean knew was obscene—she didn't know the word, but the tone was clear. Ororo leapt at Scott, scattering the cards. He dodged, then sprang up and sprinted a few feet away. She chased after him.

At first, Jean found it funny. She started to worry after a minute or two, though: Scott and Ororo were really going after each other. She had seen that they roughhoused a bit, but this…

She took a few steps inside and, to her relief, spotted Professor Xavier as soon as her eyes adjusted.

"Is everything all right, Jean?"

"Um… they're, ah, they're… really fighting."

He followed her outside, just in time to see Ororo attempt to tackle Scott. He tossed her instead and Jean winced when Ororo hit the ground—but she popped up a moment later, and Scott readied for another attack.

"See?"

Professor Xavier smiled. "Not to worry, it's only play. However—Ororo, Scott!"

They paused, giving up fighting for a moment.

"You have a call."

"Mrs. Sanchez?" Scott asked, starting toward the door.

Ororo rolled her eyes. She did not care for the social worker. Neither of them did, mostly because they did not care for being in foster care at all.

"Not Mrs. Sanchez."

"Then who…?" Ororo wondered.

Professor Xavier gave her a _look_.

Scott and Ororo glanced at each other. They realized at the same time, grinned, and raced one another inside.

"In the study," Professor Xavier called after them.

Jean, left behind, held out her hand and drew the cards up telekinetically. "Who is it?" she asked. "On the call?"

"An old friend."

She nodded, uncertain. None of the math really added up with those two. She had noticed things like their not being familiar with an iPod, but they were… underprivileged. But how old a friend could they have jointly when they had only known one another for two years?

Well, how old a friend could they have at all! They were only fifteen, after all. (Jean was sixteen, entirely different!)

"Professor, they lived with you before, right? Ororo and Scott?"

"They did, yes."

"But… not as long as I've known you." And she had known him more than twice as long as Ororo and Scott said they had known each other! "You never mentioned them, I never met them."

"It's a complicated situation."

Jean nodded, unsatisfied with that answer but knowing she would get no further. She didn't like the amount of secrets they all seemed to share. In a way, it was exciting, a bit of a mystery. In a bigger way, she was on the outside.

"What happened before they started fighting?"

"Oh. Scott tricked us. Sank Ororo in a card game. She doesn't seem to like to lose."

Professor Xavier chuckled. "Well, nicely done, Scott! He outsmarted her," he explained. "Scott has a way of hiding his intelligence. Ororo is generally the wilier of the two, so when he manages something like that—well, it's all in play."

Jean nodded, shuffling the cards for something to do. "Do you think I'll ever have that?"

"Have what?"

She thought about it a moment. "A real best friend."

"I don't doubt it."

* * *

 

**5 minutes earlier...**

"And you do not think to tell me this?!"

Charles did not try to hide his amusement. He was rather more competent with the Skype program than some men his age. At the moment he was on a call with a white-haired woman whose volatility he still missed sometimes.

"I did leave a message," he pointed out.

She scoffed. "A message."

There was no way to reach her, they both knew that. She had made her choices a long time ago and her service to her country came first, sometimes taking her away from everything else.

"Two messages."

"You do not have Cerebro?"

"The last time, you were… rather displeased with me."

"I think you did not mind!"

Recalling the energy with which she expressed this displeasure, they both smiled.

Ruth softened. "How are they, Charles?"

"They're fine. Well. He took care of them."

She responded with a derisive snort. She had been accepting of Chris Summers, understanding even. When they learned what the man had once done to his small son, it had been Ruth who counseled Charles not to act on the fury he felt. Then Chris left with the children, and there was no forgiveness.

"It was only six months to them. Scott's changed, he's… he looks you in the eye now. He still needs his glasses, but there's a difference."

"And our girl?"

Charles laughed. "Tough as ever. But different, too, matured. Would you like to speak with them?"

So he went and found Ororo and Scott playing on the front lawn, and while Charles stayed to ease Jean's mind, Ororo and Scott raced to the study.

They both froze when they saw Ruth on the computer screen. They had known she would be there, but it was one thing to know, another entirely to see her—and to see that she, like Charles, was very much an older person. That she had wrinkles and white hair. But she was unmistakably Ruth, the same smile and sharp eyes.

Scott put an arm around Ororo's shoulders. When she began to cry outright, she leaned against him.

The word was barely a whisper:

"Mom."


	26. The 1964 World Series

Scott hadn't completely adjusted to the whole "cell phone" thing, but he understood basically how they worked. When he came in from a run to see the little box shaking on his desk, he knew how to take a call. It was one of those video-chat applications that Hank installed.

"Morning, Alex."

"Morning. Are you okay?"

"Yeah—yes. Fine. I was running. Happy birthday."

"Thanks."

"Do you use candles at your age?"

Alex laughed. "No, Scott. There's a lifetime candle allotment. Once you use up all of them, you never get any more candles."

"You're still such a fu—"

"I'm a _what_?"

"Nothing."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Yeah, how 'bout this?" Scott glanced over his shoulder before flipping Alex the bird.

Alex laughed. "I miss you, little brother."

"I'm not your little brother!"

"I think that one's been put to bed by now, kid."

Scott sighed and shook his head—wrinkles and a head full of silver hair didn't make Alex any less his little brother, not to his mind. He understood, though. Alex could be his grandfather, age-wise.

He had been told Alex's hair was silver now. To Scott, the color appeared very similar to its previous blond.

"Charles told me you wanted to visit," Alex said, making Scott suppress another sigh. He couldn't go. He understood that—and he didn't want to talk about it. He couldn't, it sucked, end of story. "We'll see each other soon. I promise. Okay?"

"Sure. So you got any plans for tonight?"

"Family dinner. Older folks have low-key birthdays."

Scott hadn't celebrated a birthday since his sixth, back when his mother was alive. He did not have much to compare for what was low-key.

Which reminded him, "If you wanted to… talk about our parents some time, I um. I really got to know Chris. He's… he's not so bad."

"I'd like that."

"And maybe you can help me with modern music!"

Alex laughed—Scott felt a twinge of pride. Alex had always been the funnier brother. Besides, Scott wasn't generally good with feelings—aside from Ororo's, and that was because he knew her so well. So he was pleased to make someone smile, twice as much because that person was Alex.

And he looked like the old Alex when he smiled. The young Alex.

"We're both old men there, Scott. Have you been to the basement yet?"

The basement? There had been a time Scott knew the mansion well. He knew where to hide and where to find books. He knew the parts that had been fixed because someone had broken them. Sometimes because he had broken them!

He realized something.

"You mean the bomb shelter?"

"It's not a bomb shelter anymore. It's—is that her? Charles's new student?"

Scott glanced over his shoulder, in the direction Alex had indicated. Alex didn't have many options to indicate, not through the phone, but it didn't matter. Jean stood in the doorway. She wore her nightgown like she had just woken up. He would never understand how she managed to wake up with her hair so perfect. She didn't even have bad breath in the mornings.

Suddenly he remembered how badly he needed a shower, that his clothes were soaked with sweat and he probably stank.

Scott went pink.

So did Jean.

"I wasn't eavesdropping," she said.

"Look, it's just a… just a—family phone call. Thing."

"Of course."

"Professor Xavier knows, it's not like it's a secret or something."

"Yeah, I wouldn't have thought. I should leave you alone."

Once Jean had closed the door and disappeared, Alex asked, "You know she likes you, right?"

"Shut up, no she doesn't!"

Alex chuckled the way only a little sibling can, regardless of that sibling's age. He shook his head. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

"Go take a shower, get dressed, grab a Pop-Tart or something."

"We're not allowed to have Pop-Tarts in the mansion."

Professor Xavier really didn't like Pop-Tarts. Scott didn't fully understand, especially since most things in the twenty-first century seemed to be some kind of cookie, but he didn't argue.

When Alex looked surprised, Scott asked, "Didn't you have anything your kids weren't allowed to have?"

"Of course," Alex said. "Pop-Tarts just seems… arbitrary."

"Hey, Alex?"

"I'm still here."

"What's it like to be a dad?"

The look on his face was impossible to read. After a moment, he said, "It's complicated. We'll talk about it later."

* * *

 

Ororo left the mansion later that morning, saying something about an errand. By mid-afternoon the sun had turned into a physical force, and Jean decided this was an ideal time for a nap. Scott borrowed an atlas and went to sit outside.

A lot of his life was easy to trace.

He found Ohio simply enough. Dayton. He was conceived near there. He traced the page from Dayton to Akron.

Anchorage, Alaska. He barely remembered—but he did remember. What he remembered of his mother happened largely in Alaska.

Hawaii. Alex was born in Hawaii.

Nebraska.

He looked at the state, then at the entire map. He knew how he got to New York, remembered that train ride very well. But in his mind, a part of him was still in Omaha.

He wondered if that was literally true. Mr. Milbury was a scientist; he took samples. Ran experiments. Was all of that gone? Was Mr. Milbury?

Scott flinched at the memory. Chris told him he needed to face it, but he just wanted it to go away. What good was remembering? But he couldn't not.

_The room was so cold. He wanted to curl onto his side and bring his knees to his chest the way he did at night. He wanted his mother to stroke his hair and kiss him and sing about sunshine, like he wanted every night. But he wasn't on the flat mattress but a metal table._

_He couldn't curl onto his side because straps across his knees and chest and hips kept him still. He was mostly flat, but his head was raised, chin pressed to his chest high as he could manage._

_His bare belly trembled, his breath coming shorter and shorter as the knife approached. It gleamed. So sharp… so sharp… so…_

_He screamed when it cut him._

_"Stop whining. You won't die."_

_It burned across his belly, then up toward his chin. And then he was crying not out of pain, but because this would really be the end of him, because this time he was sure Mr. Milbury would rip him open and put him inside out this time._

_"What are you thinking?" Milbury asked. "Boy. What are you thinking?" he repeated, when Scott didn't answer. "Speak up!"_

_He was thinking that he was going to die._

_And then he would probably go to Alaska. He would die and go back to the house where they used to live Before, the one with Mommy's paintings on the walls and the fireplace and how it always smelled a little bit like smoke. Mommy would be there, and he would see little Alex again…_

_"Speak up!"_

_"O-our Father who art in heaven—"_

_Dry, dry cotton filled his mouth and he couldn't speak anymore._

_More cutting, then another pause._

_Milbury patted his wet face. "My fault. I knew you had nothing useful to say."_

Scott's eyes snapped open and his lungs flooded with air, desperate. Screams rang in his ears. It wasn't real—it wasn't now. He clambered to his feet. He wasn't a little boy anymore. This wasn't Omaha.

The screaming still echoed, like he would never stop.

Because it wasn't him.

"Jean."

He shook her shoulder.

Luckily she woke easily. Luckily—he knew what happened if she stayed asleep. What Milbury did next.

"Scott…"

She looked at him for a moment in a way that nearly made his heart stop. She looked at him like she knew. Maybe the dream made her cry because he had cried. Whatever the reason, she threw her arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder.

"I dreamed I was in this weird room and I was so cold and this creepy guy… he was cutting me open. Oh my god, he was cutting me open, and it felt so real… he cut me open…"

She pulled away to touch her belly, to feel that she was still closed up like a person should be.

"It was just a dream."

"Oh my god." She held onto him again. "It was so crazy."

"I know," Scott said, because he did, all too well. He rubbed circles on her back. "I know, Jean, but it's over. It's over now."

Despite himself, he couldn't help but feel a bit pleased. He hated that Jean had felt his memory, as he had no doubt she had; he hated that he had hurt her and he was humiliated. The only saving grace was that no one else had been there. When Milbury did what he did, no one but he and Scott knew.

Now Jean.

"What would I imagine this?" she asked through tears. "Why would I dream this?"

Mercy. She thought…

"It was just a dream," he said.

He hated that she was hurting, but he was happy that he could comfort her. It was a good feeling. A _really_ good feeling…

Scott shifted and tried to stop noticing how warm and soft Jean felt. He focused on her crying instead and remembered Mickey Mantle's seventh inning home run in the fourth game of the 1964 World Series.

 


	27. Strong/Broken

It's both better and worse here.

 **Pro:** Being around other mutants means I can make mistakes. My powers get funny sometimes. Earlier today I had this really weird dream. It looked like a tornado hit. Scott and I talked about it, and he never looked at me like I was a freak.

 **Con:** Being around other mutants means I'm a mutant. Before, I tried to be human. I look human enough. Now, it's like accepting I'm not. I still hope I can stay here into next school year, and I still want to go to Cornell and I want to become a doctor, but do mutants do that? What do mutants do? Professor Xavier says mutants have been around for years, but that doesn't mean there's a mutant experience or mutant expectations.

 **Pro:** I like Ororo. Mostly I think she likes me, too, but it's sometimes difficult to know with her. But she's smart and funny and she tells you what's on her mind. I'm not sure where I stand with her, but I think we're becoming friends.

 **Pro:** I like Scott, too, differently.

 **Con:** They're super close and I'm not sure there's room for me. I know Scott and Ororo have been together in the foster system, and I totally can't imagine what they've been through. Sometimes I think about reading their minds just to find out, but that would be really rude. It's just weird to be in a place where everyone knows something I don't.

 **Con:** Literally, everyone.

 **Con:** I mean, even Professor Xavier is lying to me and I can tell. They tell me things that seem okay, but then… then I think about it, and… how could they have been his foster kids? I would have known! But I know he loves them. I can see that. And why would they have ever been taken away from someone who's clearly taking care of them really well? And why did I hear (not that I was snooping but I overheard) that Scott says a man as old as Professor Xavier is his brother?

 **Conclusion:** I don't fit in among humans or mutants. Which sucks.

* * *

 

As Jean sat at her desk, writing out her pro/con list, Scott was pacing in Professor Xavier's study.

Ororo had come home at dusk and been given a look she knew meant she would have probably been told off for disappearing all afternoon without saying where she was going… but there were other matters at hand. So while Scott paced, she sat in an armchair, eyes flitting between Scott and Professor Xavier.

The plastic bag she had brought home was crinkling every time her bare toes brushed it, so she nudged it under her chair.

"Scott?" Ororo asked. He was starting to worry her.

He stopped moving, very suddenly, and said as if an announcement, "So we're dangerous to her. Damaging. To a normal person."

"Scott," Professor Xavier disapproved gently.

"Can someone tell me what happened?" Ororo asked.

"Jean."

She rolled her eyes.

Duh.

"You are aware that when she first arrived, Jean shared a nightmare of yours."

Ororo nodded. She remembered: Jean had the dream about the collapse, when Ororo spent days trapped in rubble. Ororo hadn't minded too much. She didn't like it, no, but it was just a nightmare now. And nightmares were far less frightening with someone to hold onto.

"We had a similar incident today."

Ororo shrugged. "So?" She didn't see the significance. "She had the rubble dream again?"

"This time the dream was Scott's."

She still didn't understand.

"Maybe she should go home," Scott suggested. See Professor Xavier's disapproval, he hurried to explain: "She has a mother, a father, another place to go. Normal people don't belong here."

The professor shook his head. "Jean is not a normal human. She is a mutant, like us."

Ororo could see both their logics. She didn't think the dream was such a big deal. It had been unintentional, of course—it was a dream! But…

She looked between the two. Instinct told her to take Scott's side. They were one another's confidant and protector, champion, and it had kept them alive. Still—it was an odd thing to discuss, what should happen to Jean, with Jean not here.

"But we're not normal mutants, Professor. I think Jean knows something's not right. We do our best, but—what if we told Jean the truth? I wouldn't be in control, either, if I had to live with three people keeping secrets from me."

Her control had faltered with the Starjammers, too, when her feelings were hurt. It was stupid: Chris was Scott's bio-dad, he was right to be focused on his own son. And he didn't neglect Ororo. In fact, if you asked her, he was happier with the girl who asked questions and talked to him instead of sulking. Still, Scott was a frequent distraction and Ororo was… not happy.

"We can't," Scott said.

"Why not?" Ororo asked.

"Because—for one thing, we'll seem crazy!"

Ororo shrugged. "Not if Professor Xavier tells her. She'll believe him. It's not like you're tricking her," she added, "I only want to tell her the truth." And, she thought, it wasn't like jean could go gossiping about them because who would believe her? Telling her seemed the safest option.

"None of this is the point," Scott said. "Being here gets Jean hurt, gives her nightmares—and, okay, she's a mutant too, but she's not like us, Professor. She's not…"

Professor Xavier had a very disapproving look on his face. "She's not what, Scott?"

For a moment, Ororo didn't think he could answer. It was okay. It was hard for Scott to say these things, but Ororo didn't mind. It was easy for her. She was what she was. And sure, yes, it made her weird, but she wasn't unhappy and anyone who didn't like her could stuff it.

They answered at the same time.

Scott: "Strong."

Ororo: "Broken."

They looked at one another. Ororo shrugged, accepting Scott's word. It was the same thing, wasn't it? When people broke and put themselves together, they were stronger. People who never broke, people who stayed whole, they were like babies. Sweet and cute and fragile.

Scott gritted his teeth. "You can't inflict us on her. You can't do it to any of us, you know what's in our heads, Professor! This was a bad idea from the start and we should just… just fix it."

Get rid of Jean, he meant, send her home. Ororo didn't like it. Jean was fun. Scott was a friend she would trust to the end of the world, but it wasn't easy to laugh with him. Ororo hadn't realized until Jean moved in how much she liked laughing.

She didn't want Jean to go, but Professor Xavier always gave Scott what he wanted, he always had. Or rather, the other him had, back when he had hair.

"I like Jean," she said.

"I like her, too, but—"

"You can't like someone and want to kick her out!"

"It's not like that, it's for her own good."

Something inside of her snapped when she heard that. Scott had always looked out for everyone; it was who he was. He made sure they were safe. He made plans. He considered eventualities. All of it was innately Scottish, but now, for the first time, it seemed… wrong.

Whenever he told her what to do or where to go, he said why. He _said it_. That was why she trusted him.

She leapt out of her chair and shoved him. Maybe because it was sudden, because she startled him, or—she hated the thought—because he allowed it, she shoved him so hard he fell.

It was so obvious she knew even Professor Xavier heard: it hurt her. Scott bossed, yes, but he didn't disrespect people like he had just done to Jean. She didn't like this side of Scott, felt almost betrayed by him that after so many adventures he would abandon her like this, stop caring about—about other people.

And it was breaking her heart.

They stared at each other, and Ororo felt herself beginning to tremble with the feeling that maybe she didn't know Scott at all.

"Ororo," Professor Xavier said.

Ororo breathed a little easier. He would make this better, he would make a choice now, he would say that Jean wasn't leaving. He would tell Scott he had overstepped, tell Ororo it would be okay.

"Please sit down."

It wasn't the reassurance she wanted.

"Are you making Jean leave?"

"Ororo, that's not—"

"Are you?!"

"Both of you need time to gather your thoughts."

"What does that—"

Scott interrupted, "We understand," which made the whole world glaze red. He started for the door. "Come on, Ororo."

"I don't understand!" she said, a challenge as much as a fact.

"We, um… we're being sent to our rooms."

"That's stupid!"

The windows rattled, buffeted by a sudden wind.

"That's why we're being sent to our rooms."

And as much as Ororo hated it, he was right. She could feel the air murmuring, responding to her frustration and impatience… and knowing made her no calmer.

She grabbed her bag from beneath the chair and left, slamming the door behind her.


	28. Vulnerable

When he left his room, it was all Scott could do to keep his head up. He felt like a kid. He had gone to his room because he was told to, because he obeyed, but he realized he had belonged there. Professor Xavier wasn't playing for time; Scott had been out of line. He had been hysterical, not himself.

So when he once more stepped from his room, he was ashamed of himself.

The Xavier he knew a year ago would have forgiven him and helped him make up for what he had done. Grow from it. Mostly, Scott liked the Xavier he saw now. He trusted the man as far as he had needed to, and perhaps more—but Scott had not lost control before. It left him feeling vulnerable.

"Professor?"

Scott found him in his study, as he had expected.

"Come in."

"I apologize for what I said earlier. It was inappropriate and rude and—and I apologize."

"Please sit down."

He did.

"Do you want to tell me what was really going on?"

Scott hesitated. He would have told the Professor Xavier he knew a year ago. Several years ago. That man, he would have told the truth… but Scott did not really know the person in front of him.

"Ah. You don't trust me," Professor Xavier said.

No, he didn't. How could he, a stranger?

"It's not that—"

"No, Scott, it's all right," he said. "It's fine. We knew one another a long time ago."

"She saw me," he half-whispered. "She… _saw_. And Jean's smart, she'll figure out what happened soon enough, and she—she knows. I don't know how to talk to someone who knows what he did."

"It wasn't your fault."

Scott shrugged. He knew that. What Mr. Milbury did wasn't his fault. It was something Milbury did, because he was sick, because he… because. Scott couldn't have stopped it and normal people didn't beat children or experiment on them.

But…

"It still happened."

Jean was still going realize, and soon, that the dream hadn't been random. That helpless child being sliced open wasn't made up—and when he was a desperate, scared, stupid child, he had prayed. Scott no longer blamed himself, but something could be humiliating without being your fault. That was not the person he wanted Jean to see.

Wind slammed against the windows, impossibly strong for a calm July afternoon.

Scott leapt up.

"Don't," Professor Xavier told him. He paused for a moment, his eyes going distant the way they did when he used his telepathy. "She's not here."

"What do you mean?"

"Ororo—I can feel her mind. She's fine, Scott. Angry, but—give her space."

Scott was torn between obedience to a man he was genuinely trying to respect and going to his sister.

"She wants time to herself, and she deserves that."

Well… that was true.

"Scott, I want you to remember that Jean is a mutant, also. Her experience has been very different from yours, but she's no less a mutant than you are. She struggles, too."

He nodded. Something had happened to bring Jean here, Scott knew that. He hadn't asked what because it wasn't his business, but just because she was normal and pretty and knew about music didn't mean she had an easy path.

"She may realize that what she saw in one of her dreams was one of your memories, but it doesn't need to define you."

"Yeah. Of course."

Yet he knew it wasn't true.

Most mutants he knew looked weird in some way or another—Scott and his glasses, Ororo with her white hair, and although he knew Professor Xavier's paraplegia was unrelated he couldn't help but count it. But not Alex, he reminded himself. Alex had looked normal.

Just like Jean.

Scott knew better than to apologize. Doing that meant telling her that he had said she wasn't really a mutant and said she should leave. That would only hurt her more.

Instead, he brought his math book into the kitchen and settled at the table. It was the social hub of the house; she would come through eventually.

When she did, he asked, "Jean, are you busy?"

"Not that busy, why?"

"I'm having a hard time with this problem. I know you're good at math, do you think you could help me?"

Jean paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh, sure. Here."

She leaned closer and took the pencil out of his hand. She tucked her hair behind her ear, but a lock fell loose and brushed across his cheek as she explained… something math-y that he barely heard. Her breath smelled like gum.

"…got it?"

"Uh…" Scott glanced down at the page. Jean had written out more math that made very little sense to him. "Yeah. Definitely!"

She laughed. "That's okay, it's complicated." She pulled a chair close to his and sat down, once more taking the pencil and explaining. Her knee brushed his— _math_. Math was just a blur of numbers and lines and the way Jean's hand moved.

But he tried.

"Could you help me with something?" Jean asked after a while.

"Sure."

"Am I doing something wrong? Sometimes I think you like me and other times I really can't tell. I'm a nice person, I promise, and I want us to get along."

"We get along."

"Scott, you were comforting me and suddenly you were trying to get away."

Well, there had been a reason for that. It was the same reason he both wanted her to move and wanted her to stay put right now, but at least this time he had the table for modesty. And it wasn't like he could say that!

"You're not doing anything wrong. I'm sorry I made you feel that way. It's not you. I'm just, it takes me a while to trust people."

He couldn't have been more relieved when they heard the front door open. It was Friday night and, as usual, Hank was there.

Jean went to say hi.

"I'll just stay here and, um, finish up with this last problem."

"You've got this," she assured him, patting his shoulder.

As soon as Jean left the room, Scott sighed and dropped his head in his hands.


	29. Devil Horns

"Take your hat off, we're indoors."

Annie just rolled her eyes and slouched lower in her seat. The truth was that her scalp was boiling and itchy in the wool hat, but what had been a cool black dye job was a huge mess now with inches of blond roots.

She needed to re-dye it. Or maybe cut it. But for now it looked like crap and she had hat hair, too, and no way was she taking off the hat.

"Annie," her mother hissed.

They were out for her grandpa's birthday at the sort place where you didn't keep a hat on indoors in July, because it was freaky. You didn't act freaky in a restaurant with cloth napkins. There was a basket of warm bread on the table and a little bowl of salt next to a pat of butter. Nice, non-freaky stuff.

"Grandma made me this hat," Annie said.

Her grandmother looked between Annie and Daisy. "Well… yes, darling, but it's for winter. Now—it's your grandpa's birthday."

"She can wear the hat," Alex said. "I don't care. I'm sorry," he added, to his daughter, "but if the hat makes her happy, let her wear the hat. We let you out in much stranger clothes. Remember the cat ears?"

"I was six, Dad."

"Devil horns."

"Ten."

"That loose top you had in high school that showed your—"

"Alex!" his wife interrupted, but Alex's point was made. Annie had won—she would be allowed to keep her hat on—but she wondered what her grandpa was going to say. It felt like a big thing now and she didn't understand why her mom had to do that, had to make her out like this big problem just for something to say to the grandparents.

She took a piece of bread and toyed with it. She shouldn't actually eat it. Why did carbs have to be so delicious? That was something else weed simplified, because right now she was just obsessing, thinking about how everything would settle on her body, where it would land, what it would do her skin. And it sucked, because you had to eat, but then you did and… complicated. She didn't care when she was stoned, didn't care about anything, not food or moving away or not having a dad…

When she was stoned, all that existed on a distant island. It was across a lake. She could see it, knew it was there, but didn't feel it.

She hated not having a dad, though. She had a grandpa and, she had to admit, he was pretty awesome. She wished she hadn't got him socks for his birthday. They seemed like a good idea at the time. They were tie-dyed, because he had been young in the sixties. Now they seemed stupid. And Alex wasn't her dad, obviously—because, genetically, that was messed up and totally a crime.

Would her grandparents go to parent conferences this year? Her mom usually didn't…

"Annie? Annie!"

She shook herself, looking around. "Hm? What's up?"

"What do you want?"

For a moment, Annie thought her mom meant in a larger sense, in the world, in general. Then she noticed the waiter standing by their table. She had just zoned out in the middle of the restaurant. "Um… this one," she said, pointing randomly at the menu.

"Okay, great—" the waiter said.

"Wait—I'm sorry, she doesn't mean that," her mom said. "Annie, you can't have cashews, you know that."

"Uh… I need a minute."

"Annie—"

"I just need a goddamn minute!"

Was that her? She was just so tangled up, and they kept talking at her, and she just… got messed up.

"Annie!" her mother gasped.

She had raised her voice, and now everything felt even more awkward. She felt hungry and ready to throw up at the same time.

She met her mother's eyes.

"Are you f—"

_Should've just given me that goddamn minute._

"She'll have the fettucini," her grandpa said, "thank you, and we're going to step outside for a moment."

"Dad, you don't need to do that," Annie's mom said, but Alex shook his head and stood. Annie followed him.

The air outside was muggy and thick, and it choked her and woke her up at once. "Shit," she groaned, bracing herself on the wall. "Christ, my guts are all in knots."

Alex rubbed her back. "Deep breaths, Annie."

She nodded.

"Deep breaths. That's it. Good girl."

"What the hell is happening to me?"

"Well," he said, "you're a drug addict."

Annie straightened up. She looked at him, eyes narrowed. Her insides still hurt, but that wasn't fair. Or true! "Jesus, Grandpa. One, it's just weed, and two, I'm not an addict! I'm not, like, shaking because I can't light up!"

"No, you're sitting in there, thinking family dinner sucks. Your mom sucks for moving you out here away from your friends. Grandma sucks for being sick. I suck for dragging you to AA and for lying. But you know what would make it better?"

She couldn't deny that weed would make this a lot better, but that didn't make her a drug addict. She was just stressed out—which was normal.

She sighed and leaned against the wall again.

"Tell me something about Uncle Scott."

"You want to know about your uncle?"

"Yeah, I do, and I never get to ask 'cause it's like… he was yours, and it hurts too much, so instead he's this big, like, shadow. But I wanna ask now. I mean, I'm already a shitty person, right?"

Alex shook his head. "You're not a shitty person."

"Uh, apparently I'm a drug addict."

He shook his head again, chuckling. "So am I, and I'm not a shitty person for being an addict, Ann. I'm a shitty person for making my kid brother drag me out of bars and puking on Hank and walking out on your grandma."

"You never walked out on Grandma."

"I did, before you were born."

She shrugged. That was news, and news she didn't like. It was one thing to know that fifty years ago her grandpa had a drinking problem, even knowing his brother got pulled into it. That was a long time ago. A long, long time, and he was someone else then. But knowing he had walked out on Grandma… he was married. You were supposed to be an adult when you were married.

She didn't know what to think about that, so she requested again, "Tell me something about Uncle Scott."

"When he was five years old, he wore his fireman pajamas to kindergarten for a week. Plastic helmet included. Which he also slept in. He's your family, too. You can always ask."

* * *

 

The following morning, Alex brewed himself a cup of coffee as he opened the paper. It was odd, at a certain age you started reading different sections. You started reading the obituaries because it became likelier you would recognize a name.

"Dad?"

"Hm? Morning, Daze."

Daisy nodded. From the looks of her, she had been up all night. He recognized the look: bright eyes rimmed with blue smudges. When she was immersed in her painting, nothing else in the world mattered.

"Morning."

"Any luck?"

"Maybe. I have one canvas that's close to done. Is my daughter drinking?"

"No."

"Teenagers are supposed to be withdrawn, I didn't think much about that. When you took her outside last night… and you've been taking her to your AA meetings…"

Alex shook his head. "She's not drinking, Daisy." His coffee was brewed now. He took it and the paper and went to sit down at the table.

Daisy followed him. "She's my daughter. I know when something's wrong."

"I'm your father. Haven't I always taken care of you?"

Daisy thought on that for a moment, quiet. Alex hadn't wanted to hurt her. He knew keeping her daughter's problems a secret did that, but Annie was safe, she was looked after… and, in a way, Daisy never wanted to know. They both knew it. Just like they both knew Annie had been unplanned, never unloved, but sometimes unlooked after properly.

"She's been smoking pot."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Come on, Daisy. You know why."

Daisy groaned and sank into a chair.

"She'll be okay. She's been through a lot and I'm taking care of her. Let me keep doing that."


	30. You Used to Be the World

Dear Charles,

You used to be the world.

Did you know that?

Before, you were the whole world. Neither of us had any reason to leave. The outside had necessities, yes, and required the occasional visit, but it wasn't every day. Now we spend most days outside. We go to school more days than we stay home.

Before, you never would have let us get away with this shit. You would have made us sit down and Have A Talk. You controlled everything, you built this special world for us. I don't think I appreciated it at the time.

Now we go to school. We move on. Things happen and rather than resolving them properly, we just hold them inside of us. Even weeks after, it's still true. The conversation isn't coming.

Maybe it's the distance from you, or from the you we knew, or the heat. I don't think August has ever helped anyone with anything. Maybe it's the distance that a person feels watching their sibling, family, best friend getting closer with another person and leaving them behind. I like Jean. You know I like her—you know how I like her—so why can't I see her as part of the family?

I don't know what it is, but I miss how things used to be.

I was ungrateful. I'm sorry for that. Do you think if I apologized things could be how they were please?

Love from, 1964


	31. Have You Ever Been in Love

"What do you think it feels like to have a sunburn on the soles of your feet?"

"Painful."

"You think? I mean… the skin feels so loose," Jean mused. She imagined that a sunburn on the soles of her feet would be like constantly having her toes stretched out, but she could curl her toes up, too. She stretched out her toes, just to test it.

Ororo shook her head. "It hurts a lot."

They were lying on the grass, letting the sun dry their skin. It was late August already and the pond had become a favorite spot for the girls. It was a refuge from the heat, and from boys, too.

Jean rolled her head to look at Ororo. "You've had sunburns on the soles of your feet?"

"Just burns, really," Ororo said. "When I was in the desert. I had these burns, but I had to keep walking. It hurt."

"What would have happened if you stopped walking?"

"What do you think?" Ororo asked. "I would have died."

Jean propped herself up on her elbow. Times like this, she understood why Ororo didn't like swimsuits. Everything reorganized and shifted, and the wet material chafed. "Were you alone?" she asked.

"Mhm. I lived in Cairo. Things went pretty bad there and I walked out." She shrugged. "I was eleven, maybe twelve, it made sense at the time."

"That's… amazing."

"Yup. I'm awesome."

Jean laughed, pulled a handful of grass, and threw it at Ororo. Ororo shoved her.

"There's this party on Friday," Ororo said. "Will you go with me?"

"Sure. We'll bring Scott, it'll be fun."

Ororo laughed. "Scott? At a party?"

"He'll have fun!"

Ororo just shook her head.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything."

"Have you ever been in love?"

Ororo thought for a moment, eyes closed and face turned up to the sun. Then she smiled. It wasn't the sort of smile Jean had ever seen from Ororo before. Oh, she had seen her smile, but not like this. This was… transcendent.

"Yes," Ororo said, "I think I have."

Jean smiled. Not so beautifully, with hesitation, but she smiled. "Me, too."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. And it… it kind of sucks. It's fantastic, but it's totally craptastic, too. It's weird! You want to be around someone all the time, want to just… crawl inside their skin and cuddle."

Ororo gave a confused look. Crawl inside their skin? She had been in love, but never wanted to turn herself into a subdermal parasite.

"Yes, that's weird," she agreed.

"But awesome."

Okay, if Jean would insist. "But awesome. So who is it?"

"No one."

"No one?"

"Nope."

"Liar."

"You don't know them!"

"Someone from your class?"

"Yeah."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying!"

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You are!"

It was so absurd they both had to laugh. Then they just laid there, smiling in the sun, until they had to head inside because Jean started to burn.

* * *

 

By Friday evening, Jean and Ororo had spent what seemed like hours giggling about things that just confused Scott and that even Ororo hadn't thought about—like what her colors were and how to wear makeup. She had never put any on herself. Luckily Jean knew how to put it on other people. She explained that she had samples, that they had completely different complexions. (At which point Jean had blushed and Ororo had reassured her that, yeah, she was allowed to point it out.)

There was only one problem.

Scott hesitated, fingers drumming against his thigh. He glanced from Ororo to Hank.

"But…"

"You should go if you want to go, Scott," Hank said. "We'll watch _V for Vendetta_ tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course."

Scott still hesitated. "You said it was great."

"It will be great tomorrow."

Which was how, despite the place being home to three teenagers, Hank McCoy and Charles Xavier found themselves quietly sharing a bottle of wine on a Friday night.

"You do realize," Hank said, "that between spending Friday night with us or at an unsupervised party with kids his own age, Scott wanted to choose a couple of old professors."

Charles shook his head. Hank was one of the few people he could safely say was smarter than he was, yet Charles offered a gentle correction: "It won't be unsupervised."

Hank chuckled.

"There will be parents present."

"Did you hear that from Scott?"

"No, no, from…"

"From Ororo?"

Charles sighed. "There aren't any parents at this party, are there?"

Hank was a professor, and as mature as many college students believed they were, he was savvy to their ways. He knew what teenagers—even at eighteen and nineteen, they were teenagers—were like where parties were concerned.

"Scott's responsible, Charles. He won't let anything happen to the girls. My, that sounded terribly sexist, didn't it?" Hank realized. He hadn't intended to suggest that Scott was responsible because he was a boy. He was responsible because he was Scott.

"I shouldn't have agreed to this. They're not ready."

"They were ready for galaxies, Charles, I think they can handle a party."

Charles nodded—but from the look on his face, he was less certain.


	32. Party Person

It was rather unfair that getting ready for a party, for the girls, took so much time. Jean had spent so much time trying to match shoes to the her dress, doing her hair, spending extra time shaving her ankles because the strappy sandals were cute but did no favors to leg hair, and applying concealer because her forehead hated her. Ororo hadn't a thought about it or any clothes for a party, so Jean lent her a top that was comfortable on Jean but rather tighter around Ororo's chest—but she liked it, and then there was doing her hair…

Scott had grabbed a sweater and otherwise left the house as he was.

They could feel the music thumping before they arrived. It throbbed through their skulls and rattled their teeth.

Jean grinned at Ororo.

In the backseat, Scott pulled his seatbelt tighter.

He remembered a similar party, very far away…

_There are no recordings of music on Standing Still. No, the music there is all played in the moment, and the dancing is uncoordinated and wild._

_Scott had almost smiled, standing at the edge of the crowd. Ororo had adapted easily. She was barefoot, dancing with a new friend of theirs, eyes closed, one hand loosely holding Magha's. She was friendly, Magha. Even to Scott, who barely spoke to anyone._

_He had almost smiled, but he spotted Chris with some of the other men, laughing and bantering as pints were drawn._

_He shook his head and walked away…_

"We really shouldn't go in without knocking," Scott said—but the door was open, and Ororo just rolled her eyes at him.

"Ororo, wait!"

She gave him a _look_ over her shoulder and disappeared into the throng of parties.

Jean offered an understanding half-smile.

Scott put his hands in his pockets, looking around like he was in an alien environment. He was. The music was throbbing like a physical buffeting against his head. People were talking, someone were shouting, they were drinking out of plastic cups. He watched beer slosh onto the floor… at least, he thought it was beer. He didn't know these things.

He stood on the doorstep for a moment, not sure what to do. He was supposed to keep an eye on Jean and Ororo—but Jean and Ororo had gone in different directions. Ororo was tough, Scott knew that. She had seen galaxies, they both had, traveled beyond what was or could be known. Jean knew only one world… but the world she knew was this one. She could take care of herself.

The house itself was a mess. It there were cups and drinks spilled everywhere, at least two people had already puked… Scott winced. He made his way into the kitchen. The counters were covered in plastic cups and glass bottles, and a game had been set up on the table—like ping-pong, but with cups of beer on the table.

Someone bumped into Scott, someone sweaty with a solid, well-padded frame. Something wet poured into his shirt, soaking his front.

"Oh… dude, I'm so sorry!" slurred whoever Scott had hit. "Dude, you spilled your drink. I'll get you another one."

Scott looked to the empty cup the guy didn't seem to realize he was holding, and his wide, half-focused eyes. He didn't know that he had ever seen anyone quite so far gone.

"Don't worry about it," Scott assured him.

There was a pool outside and people jumping into it, either fully clothed or fully not clothed, but none of those people was Ororo or Jean.

The place was big. Jean had called it a "McMansion". It was smaller than where they lived, but still had a bit of a sprawl to it, space enough that Scott realized the music was only gently thudding now. And he realized he wasn't looking for Ororo anymore. He just wanted to get away from the music and noise and crush of people and reek of cheap booze.

He sighed, sat down on a stranger's bed, and took out his cell phone.

He toyed with the idea of calling someone. Hank or Professor Xavier would probably come get him and he could go home. He didn't want to be here—didn't belong here. He reeked of booze and his wet shirt was uncomfortable. Everyone seemed like imbeciles doing ridiculous things.

He wished…

He wished Chris were here.

This wasn't Scott's fault! Hank encouraged him to come to the party. Ororo and Jean wanted to go. But he still knew that when he told Professor Xavier what had happened, he'd be mad. Or disappointed. But Chris wouldn't have been mad. He only got mad about dangerous decisions, not stupid ones.

Scott squeezed his eyes shut, slipped off his glasses, and pressed his hands over his eyes.

Professor Xavier never asked about their time with the Starjammers, and Scott was scared it was because he knew. In 1964, Scott knew who he was and who his family was. Chris Summers was no part of that… not until the Starjammer. Until Scott got to know him.

"Stop it," he murmured.

He didn't know how long he sat there until he managed to pull himself together and go back to the party, looking for Ororo.

She was in the den, at the center of that pounding music. At least she seemed to be having a good time, Scott thought. He settled into a corner, not even trying to join in, not wanting to. Ororo and her theater friends were playing a game with slips of paper in an empty plastic cup, something hilarious to all of them.

After a while, Jean came and sat next to Scott. She caught his eye and smiled. It was the first time Jean's smile did not put butterflies in his stomach. He tried to smile back.

She leaned closer.

_I guess you're not such a party person._

She was not the first person to speak to him telepathically. Still, he liked the sense of Jean in his head.

_No, I'm not._

Maybe I'm not either.

She reached over and took his hand.

Well… maybe some parts of a party were not so bad.

They exchanged a few more telepathic notes, but mostly sat quietly. Jean got up a few times to grab a snack or a drink, or to go dance and hang out with the others, but Scott didn't budge.

He especially stayed put when Ororo started acting strangely.

There was no point speaking over the blaring music. She said something, anyway, to a classmate of hers. He sat on a couch; Ororo leaned over, straddling him, and stroked his hair, then kissed his ear. Scott checked the time. Was it late enough to drag her home? Somehow it had approached midnight, and Ororo was sucking her classmate's ear now. Then, abruptly, she pushed him away and grabbed someone else. She pulled her new friend onto the couch, kissing in a way that made Scott very uncomfortable to have seen even a glimpse of.

His phone buzzed and his heart leapt in hope: was that Professor Xavier texting to say they were late and needed to come home right now?!

No. Jean.

_She's suuuuper stoned._

Scott's eyebrows rose. He looked up at Ororo.

 _She wouldn't do drugs,_ he texted Jean. She was on the other side of the room, approaching. She didn't even break her stride as she checked her phone, just chuckled and shook her head.

Scott thought he might be sick. Of course Ororo was acting unlike herself…

He stood up and walked over to the couch.

"Ororo!"

She couldn't hear over the music.

"ORORO!"

This time she looked up at him, paused, then idly waved him off.

He shook his head. When she ignored him, he pulled her off the couch—off her classmate. She groaned and pulled against him, then grabbed a blanket. Her eyes widened. He couldn't hear what she said, just saw how she petted the blanket like a live animal. Like a kitten.

Scott glanced around. He looked at Ororo, disheveled and sweat-streaked and grinning, and made a choice. He led her out of the party.

Jean joined them, walking on Ororo's other side to help her to the car. Scott tried to buckle her seatbelt, but she kept pushing him away, giggling.

"Jean?"

"I'll drive carefully."

"Jean… you've been drinking," Scott reminded her.

She shook her head. "A couple beers. I'm fine."

More than anything, Scott wanted to call someone to come get them. He didn't want to drive with a tipsy driver and Ororo unbuckled and off her head in the back. Not sure who to call, he just got in the car.

They drove a few blocks in silence. Well, Scott and Jean didn't talk. Ororo giggled and murmured to herself. Scott clenched his fists, trying not to shake. How could she do this? It was like a stranger sprawled across the backseat with her bare feet on the windowpane.

Soon they began to feel alone. There were few people out at this time of night, and the world barely existed outside the swath of brightness cut by the headlights.

Scott glanced at Ororo, then quickly forward again. "For God's sake," he muttered.

"What's she—"

"Eyes on the road."

Jean nodded. "Is Ororo okay?" she asked, prompting another gale of giggles from the backseat, followed by a gasp and something about bubbles.

"She's _fine_."

"Scott?"

"Ohmigod!" Ororo gasped. "Stop here! Jean, stop the car, Jean, we have to come back. Jean… you have pretty hair. Redhead," she observed, batting at Jean's hair.

Jean pulled over.

Ororo had the door open while the car was rolling to a stop. The second Jean set the parking brake, Scott scrambled to unbuckle his seatbelt.

"Hey," Jean said, resting a hand on his arm. It was enough to make Scott pause. "You're… you're a really good brother."

It was one of the ways Scott had always defined himself: as a brother. He had always tried to be a good brother, to take care of—well, it had been Alex most of his life, but Ororo too in the past few years. His glasses hid that the words made his eyes well up.

"Thank you. It's okay if you want to wait in the car. I'll check on her."

"That's okay."

Ororo was in the middle of a field now. Moonlight gleamed off her hair and in sweat on the curves of her body. Her clothes were in a pile at her feet.

"Ororo," Scott murmured, "come on back. Let's go home."

" _Let's_ go back home," Ororo agreed. "But this is where we came home! It was here, and now it's gone…" She tilted her head back, laughing. Then she focused on Scott and gasped, "I miss Hepzibah! I want to touch her now, I want to touch her fur. Are you hot? I'm hot. I'm… I'm so…" She brushed at her arm, shook her head, and looked up at the sky. The light seemed to fall out of the world as clouds gathered. Within seconds, they were pouring down, Ororo laughing as raindrops slithered down her.

"Jean, you wanna go back to the car?"

Scott didn't know what his sister was doing, and it was scaring him. He didn't know what she had taken or what it was doing to her or if—and when—she would be back to her usual self.

Ororo kept the storm raining down for a long time, giggling as the water streamed over her. She stood and giggled and wriggled her toes in the mud, and when the storm died down, Scott picked up her sodden clothes and guided her back to the car with an arm around her shoulders. She babbled the whole way.

"Scott," Ororo said, stroking his chin, "you shave! Remember when Chris taught you how to shave? I know how to shave. I don't always shave, Scott, my legs are so fuzzy, doesn't it feel funny to be fuzzy? Fuzz…zzy. That's a good word, Scott, fuzz-zz-zz-zz. Fuzz-zz-zz-zz-zz-zz-zz… mm, this is fuzzy," she observed as Scott wrapped a blanket around her. "This is fuzzy. You make me feel fuzzy, too, Scott. Jean! You, too. I love you, Jean. And I love you. Chris loves you. Scott, Chris loves you. Me too. I mean, he loves me too, and I love you too. Scott—"

"Okay, Ororo, I heard you."

"Okay," she murmured, slumping in the backseat. "But, Scott, I love you."

Scott got back into the passenger's seat. Jean started the car again and drove them the rest of the way to the mansion.

"Scott?" Jean asked. By now Ororo had fallen asleep, and they heard her snoring softly. "Who's Chris?"

Scott swallowed, staring out the window. "My father."

"Ororo knows your dad?"

"Father," Scott corrected, half-sharp and half-hearted. "And, um, yeah. Yes, she does."

 


	33. Accidents Happen

When Annie woke up the next morning, she heard her mom and grandma outside. She knew they were gardening. That was good. When Grandma was really sick, she didn't have the energy to garden, but now she was back to doing things she enjoyed.

Annie yawned and stretched. Judging by the light through the window, it was way too early… but she was awake. Not falling asleep again.

She padded barefoot to the desk and picked up her hat. She bent double, putting her hair into the hat split-ends first. It was the only way to hide all the blond.

Downstairs, she found her grandpa at the kitchen table, filling out a small stack of forms.

"Hi."

"Good morning."

"That too."

Annie poured herself a bowl of Cheerios and sat down at the table opposite Alex. "What are you doing?" she asked.

Alex pushed the papers aside and regarded her for a moment. The look he gave her was too serious, worryingly serious. Shit. What had she done _now_? She wasn't smoking—yeah, she still had a stash, but she wasn't using. Just to show that she could stop. It wasn't like she had anywhere to go or any friends to hang out with, so she couldn't get into trouble there.

"This is the paperwork to enroll you in school here," he said.

Annie got it: they weren't moving out any time soon. That was why she was supposed to be upset, because they were going to be staying here. She could just imagine how much her grandpa would be on her case when she was back in school. Probably no more skipped assignments—like a C was the end of the world!

So, yeah, that would suck. But she could deal. And she supposed in fairness she should admit that Daisy cared about her grades, too.

She shrugged. "Okay."

Her grandpa looked surprised.

"What, like I'm going to have a tantrum, right? I like it here, Grandpa."

"Oh. Okay. Good."

She swallowed a few more spoonfuls of Cheerios. Alex went back to filling in the forms.

After a while, Annie found an idea growing in her mind. She knew he was her grandpa, of course she knew that, but he was also the closest she had to a dad. He took care of her. Loved her. She believed that, knew that—her grandpa loved her.

Both Alex and his brother had been adopted. She knew Alex's adoption had been an unhappy one, although she saw Great-Aunt Hailey sometimes. Apparently his brother's had been different—which explained a "relative" she had been curious about for some time. She didn't know who Uncle Charles really was. He was Grandpa's friend, but you didn't call friends "uncle". Unless they were family through adoption.

Annie should be adopted.

That was the conclusion she reached.

As she watched her grandpa enroll her in school, she thought he was practically her dad already. She had a mom, but her mom didn't care about her. Annie hadn't even thought about school and would bet her mom didn't, either. If he hadn't thought about it, what would she have done in the fall? Next month?

Did he think it, too? That he should be her dad? Annie watched, willing the thought into his head, willing him to acknowledge it. Nothing felt more significant to this moment, or to her life in general.

"Grandpa, you were an accident, right? I mean, your parents, um, had you, by accident? Not to be mean. Accidents happen, right?"

Alex looked up from his paperwork. "I wasn't," he clarified, "my brother was."

She knew that. It had got buried in her head, but she knew.

"Was my mom?"

"No, Grandma and I were trying to have a baby. You're very curious this morning, what's on your mind?"

Annie shrugged. "I dunno. Stuff."

"Just stuff, huh?"

"Yeah."

She wanted him to ask specifically what stuff, or tell her to stop fooling around. If he did that, she would tell the truth—she would have an excuse to say that he and Grandma should adopt her. She wanted him to ask so much it was burning through her. He had to feel it; she thought the table was about to explode just from touching her.

"Grandpa—"

She said it just as his cell phone rang.

He had adapted surprisingly well to the cell phone era, especially for a guy who thought he could use his Nikon to Skype. Alex checked the screen.

"That's Scott," he explained, getting up to take the call.

Annie kept her attention on her cereal until he had gone. Then she followed him. She waited in the hallway, listening to his half of the conversation:

"…okay, yeah, but calm down. Tell me what happened… Scott, I'm fine, you're the one sounding not fine… on what?… Not the best choice, but she'll survive… because people use it all the time… No, Charles isn't going to be mad at you… because he's not… Scott, you didn't do anything… You did?… No, she did… Scott—Scott, calm down. Look, Ororo did something dumb, but it's not the end of the world, and it's not your fault… Still not—because… Scott… okay," he said.

Then he was quiet for a while, just offering the occasional "mhm" or "yeah". After a long time, he said, "You okay?… Okay. Ready to go back inside?… It's going to be okay, Scott… okay. Bye."

Alex hung up, shook his head, and dialed someone else.

"Charles, it's Alex… Yeah. You need to talk to Scott… Yeah, he called… You know he's not a bother, he's my family. I heard Ororo was high last night… Charles, he's not taking it well. Look, you weren't there when he was dragging me out of bars, I think seeing her like that—… Not so long for him… All right then. Take care."

Annie wasn't sure what to make of all that, so she headed back upstairs to think about it. The thing was, she didn't believe most of Alex's stories about Scott time-traveling with his space pirate dad.

She knew he was family, though, because the second Alex knew Scott had a problem, he was on fixing it.

A wise man didn't mess with Alex Summers's family.

(She was so sunk when she started dating!)


	34. Curdled

Try as they did, Jean and Scott had been unable to wake Ororo. Ultimately he carried her inside, still wrapped in that fuzzy blanket. What was he supposed to do in this situation? Did he just put her in bed, or put her on her side like if she was drunk? Was it okay to leave her alone?

"Should I get Professor Xavier?" Jean whispered, holding the door open.

Scott shifted his grip on Ororo as he maneuvered inside, gliding her feet millimeters shy of the jamb. He knew they would have to talk to him eventually, but the idea scared him. He didn't know this Professor Xavier, didn't know how he would deal with being angry. "We should tell Hank," he decided.

"He's gonna find out."

"Hank will know what to do. We can talk to Professor Xavier tomorrow."

"Today would be preferable."

Scott and Jean turned to see the professor at the end of the hall. They shared a mutual feeling then of being caught. Sunk.

"What happened?" he asked, noting Ororo unconscious in Scott's arms.

"We think Ororo took something," Scott replied.

"She's on molly," Jean added.

"Molly?"

"Or ecstasy," Jean amended. "I didn't see her take it, I'm not sure. But she came down, she's okay now. I mean… she came down."

Professor Xavier looked from Jean to Scott to Ororo. He shook his head. "Go to bed. We'll deal with this in the morning."

Scott looked down at Ororo. She looked okay now, asleep and really quite peaceful-looking. He resented her for that, for causing all this trouble, and now he was awake in the middle of the night, exhausted and smelling of beer, because she needed to take a long, naked shower outdoors.

He understood when he should make himself scarce. Still, he needed to know: "Will she be okay?"

"Yes, she will. I'll ask Hank to check on her."

Scott knew he was supposed to just go to his room, he knew he had been punished, but he couldn't. He put Ororo to bed and went to take a shower. Even with all the rain, he still smelled of beer and felt sticky where it had been spilled on him. He couldn't sleep until that was gone.

He couldn't sleep at all.

After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, Scott picked up his phone. It was too late to call Alex. He thought about texting Jean, but she was probably asleep. He reread their texts from that night and smiled.

_I guess you're not such a party person._

No, he wasn't.

He navigated out of his text-box (text-box? If you put the post in the post-box…) and into a web browser. _Ecstasy_. Most of what he read matched how Ororo had behaved that night, and apparently she might have "hangover" symptoms for up to a week.

Scott sighed.

"I miss you."

* * *

 

He didn't want to go running the next morning. He felt raw through and through—he had been active on less energy, though, so he kicked off the covers and hauled himself out of bed.

It was a miserable run. His body didn't want to respond, hips refusing to recognize his feet, and when he tried to force himself to run faster he crashed to the ground, stumbled by his own ankles. He groped blindly in the leaves and pine needles until he found his glasses.

That was when he called Alex, who gave him enough presence of mind to at least pick himself up off the ground. The jog back to the house was a miserable one.

He washed off the dirt in the kitchen sink, and started making pancakes. He had learned to cook more over the past few months, but pancakes were still his best and fallback. So far he hadn't seen anyone else, but anyone awake would be drawn by the scent once the batter hit the pan.

"Good morning, Scott."

And he hadn't even finished mixing the batter! Actually he was just mixing the dry ingredients.

"Hey, Professor."

"How are you?"

"I'm okay," Scott said, cracking an egg. It plunked into the buttermilk—well, the mix of milk and vinegar Hank said was comparable to buttermilk because it formed long, pliable proteins. Or 'curdled'.

"What are you making there?"

"Pancakes."

"I see. I spoke to Alex this morning."

There was an implication there, but not one Scott could quite identify. Instead he focused on the batter. Alex wouldn't have called to get him in trouble. Right?

"…oh."

"Seeing Ororo like that wasn't easy."

Scott shrugged. "Yeah. I guess I'm grounded for a while."

"No, you're not. I'm not angry with you."

Why?

"Okay."

"Ororo's going to be all right."

"I-I don't-okay. Yes."

"I know that's difficult to see right now."

He had added a second egg and now measured out a half-teaspoon of vanilla. A few drops splashed out of the measuring spoon, landing in the mix. It was a little too much… it would probably be okay.

"Scott, I'd like you to stop doing that for a moment and look at me while I'm talking to you." It was a command, spoken gently but without room for argument. Scott paused what he was doing and looked at Professor Xavier. "You showed good judgment last night. It's very common these days for young people to experiment with drugs; if you're going to do that, I prefer for you to be here, where Hank or I will know what to do if something goes wrong. I don't mean to say I'm pleased with Ororo's decision, but it was her choice. Not yours. She chose to get high. You chose to bring her home. I'm going to ask you a question about last night, and I want you to remember that I'm proud of you. Understood?"

Scott nodded.

"How was Ororo when you found her?"

"I don't understand."

"You had all separated for a while."

"Oh—she… she was with her friends from school. She was drinking and she seemed… um, Chris sometimes let her drink alcohol. She was more than that, though, and I didn't want to leave her alone, so I stayed there. Jean realized she was high, I didn't know."

"When you brought her home, she was undressed."

"Yes."

"Did something happen at the party?"

"No, nothing like that! Professor, I would never let that happen, you know me! She just—she got strange. We stopped in the field where we'd first arrived. Where our ship crashed. Ororo called up a storm and she—she took her clothes off and stood in the rain."

"All right."

"Professor, why haven't you asked about Jean? You asked where Ororo was at the party and you knew I wouldn't drink, but you didn't ask about Jean."

Professor Xavier sighed. "You and Ororo are from a very different time. This isn't the world you know. Jean has learned about drugs and parties; this is fairly common. It's her world. I do worry about her but not in the same way I worry about you and Ororo."

Scott nodded. He accepted that. "May I finish making the pancakes now?"

"Yes, of course. Are you all right?"

He thought about that for a moment. "I'm supposed to take care of her."

"You did. You brought her home."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he continued making pancakes. Seconds after the first round hit the pan, the kitchen smelled so good he hoped the sizzling covered the sounds of his stomach growling.

Apparently it did, because the next thing Professor Xavier said was, "You're familiar with the community college now."

Scott nodded. "I was thinking I can get my license soon, after I'm sixteen... again." He was sixteen once before, in 1963. Soon he would be again. "The schedules are different, classes on different days, I don't want you or Jean to be stuck giving me and Ororo a ride."

"That's a good plan," Professor Xavier agreed. "There are things you might want to get involved with in town, as well."

"I'm _not_ doing religion," Scott replied sharply.

"No, I know how you feel about that, but there's the library and a martial arts studio."

Both of which were things Scott liked: books and martial arts.

"Oh," he said.

The second round of pancakes was in the pan now. Bare footsteps hurried in.

"Oh my god," Jean squealed. She hugged Scott tightly. "Pancakes. Thank you. You made enough for me, right?"

"Of course I made enough for you."

"Do you know," Professor Xavier said, "I've absolutely forgotten a case study review I need to complete. Good morning, both of you."

When he was out of sight, Jean murmured, "That was subtle."

"He has a case study review."

"You're cute."

Not all of the pancakes were cooked, but they were both hungry. Scott paused in frying pancakes to sit down at the table with Jean. She was still in her pajamas, her hair in a ponytail with a fuzzy halo of disorder. Usually she wore a little make-up, but he liked how she looked now, too.

Scott remembered the first time he ate in this kitchen: he wouldn't take the apple away from his mouth, afraid it would be taken from him. It was a long time before he ate without protecting the food.

"So," Jean began after a few minutes, "I have some questions and I know you're in foster care, I know there's some personal stuff, but—"

"It's okay, Jean," Scott interrupted. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

She paused, surprised, and considered that. "Why?"

"I trust you."


	35. Trustworthy and Good and Aliens

Jean thought about it for a while and Scott could guess why. He and Ororo had kept their past pretty quiet until now, releasing only bits and pieces of information through slips and errors. Certain as he tried to sound, Scott still worried about what Jean would think and a part of him was not ready to revisit the past. He could shut this conversation right down if he wanted to.

He felt a twinge bad for not including Ororo, but it was hardly his fault she wasn't around. Not his fault what she did last night. But Jean had helped him bring Ororo home, had waited with him in the rain, and even though he knew she enjoyed the party, she kept coming back to him.

"Professor Xavier was your foster dad before."

"No."

"I thought—"

"He adopted me. I lived here, for two years. Ororo was here for one. She was in foster care."

"After that you were with… Chris?"

Another nod.

"I know why he could have custody of you, he's your bio-parent, but not Ororo's, right?"

"Yes."

"How did he get custody of her? Wait—you said you were adopted! They can't undo that. Can you?"

"Chris… didn't get custody. You trust me, right? He—he took us." That sounded bad. Scott tried to explain: "It was an accident, but…" His throat flooded. Caught. "We were gone." It brought up those feelings again, the way he felt when he looked out at the stars and realized they weren't the ones he knew. His hands clenched into fists like he could trap his uncertainty, make the whole world still if his hands were still.

"Oh, Scott, I'm sorry!" Jean said, reaching for his hand. She had a drop of syrup on her fingers, making them sticky over his. "We don't need to talk about this."

"No—it's okay. We, um… you have to believe me, as weird as it's going to sound."

"I will. I—it wasn't your fault, you were kidnapped!"

The word made him recoil like she had slapped him.

"Scott, it wasn't your fault—"

"It wasn't kidnapping. I mean—it was, but it wasn't like that. You're not going to believe me, but my father—my father… he has a space ship. The reason you haven't met me or Ororo before is that we've been in different galaxies. I was adopted in 1963—I'm telling you the truth, Jean."

"Of course you are," she assured him. Her tone said something quite different.

"Look, Ororo mentioned Hepzibah. She's his girlfriend. She's a Mephitisoid, she's like a skunk only the size of a human. She has a tail and fur all over. Then there's Raza, who was rebuilt after what should have been fatal injuries. His people see dying in battle as the ideal, so being rebuilt like that, being half-metal, is seen as shameful. He's loyal to my father because he was a soldier, too, and he respects Raza. Ch'od is a big guy, like Hank's size, with a friend, Cr'eee—he's like a cat. They're weird at first, but once we got to know them, they were… the best thing I can say is trustworthy. They were trustworthy. And good, and… aliens."

"Yeah. Totally."

* * *

 

Jean had never developed much interest in the sort of movies Scott and Hank liked, so while they watched _V for Vendetta_ , she went to talk to Professor Xavier. He was in his office. She didn't know what he did all day, and realized now she had never known much about his life outside his meetings with her. She had never thought to ask.

"Professor, do you have a minute?"

"Of course, Jean." He put aside some papers. "What's on your mind?"

Jean closed the door behind her and went to sit down. "It's, um… about Scott," she said. "Professor, I really like Scott and Ororo, I swear I'm not trying to start problems."

The last thing she wanted was to put space between Professor Xavier and the others. She saw how strained those relationships were already. Sometimes they were all laughing and having a great time and she could feel the love there. Other times… not so much. Besides, Jean wanted to stay here, and she was worried that Professor Xavier might send her home if she caused problems.

He nodded. "I understand. I told you before, Scott and Ororo have a rough background—"

"That's what I'm worried about. Look, I know people make up stories to, to cope, I get that," she said, twisting the hem of her skirt nervously. She was talking too quickly. "But this was really weird. Scott was telling me about—I asked about his father, he told me his dad's a space pirate. He had all these stories about the other… space pirates… and how they traveled in time from the 1960s… it was really detailed and he thinks it's real. Like real-real. And I'm just, I'm worried about him."

She watched Professor Xavier, afraid… mostly that he wouldn't believe her. Jean knew she was in over her head. She needed help, and if Professor Xavier didn't believe her, how could she help Scott?

He sighed. "Oh, Jean. I hear how it all sounds. It's a crazy story."

She nodded, relieved. He understood. He believed her!

"Thank you for telling me. I know that wasn't easy."

She wasn't sure what to say, so she nodded again. She felt like she had betrayed Scott by telling; he had been so reluctant for so long to talk about his past. It would have been awful if Professor Xavier didn't believe her and Scott didn't trust her anymore!

"I'd like to show you something, is that all right?"

"Okay."

She had shared his memories before, but it was very rare—and special. Telepathically, they could share and connect in a way other people couldn't. Reading minds was invasive, but there was no ethical dilemma with information freely shared.

_A child handcuffed to a table, hunched and shaking, hair long and lank, eyes squeezed shut… she could feel the emotions rolling off of him. Despair. Terror._

_Shame._

_Blood and bruises on his face._

"That was Scott?" Jean asked.

Professor Xavier nodded. "That was 1962, shortly after I lost the use my legs. Jean, I understand how extraordinary a tale this is, but you deserve to hear the truth…"


	36. Touching the Elements

Standing Still was a low-tech planet. It was strange, really. They had some technology, small things like interplanetary travel… but the music. They had no recorded music, and they didn't need it. They played live music, they danced under the stars, they fell asleep in hammocks and on soft moss.

Scott had known that Standing Still was perfect, but he had still been miserable. The Starjammers took them there right after they left New York. And Earth.

He was sitting just outside the mansion, looking out at a calm lawn, but he was seeing Ororo dancing on Standing Still, flitting in and out of his line of vision. The Starjammers were with some of the natives—they didn't have a name for themselves—drinking. Chris had bruises on his neck and jaw because earlier that day his son had tried to kill him.

Remembering gave him the same sick feeling he'd had then. His eyes and throat had burned. Standing Still was a refuge. For Scott, external safety meant his mind settled—and it settled on the knowledge that he would never see his home again. His parents were gone. Ruth and Charles were gone.

He and Ororo were now relying on the charity of a man who had once drunkenly beat a five-year-old.

The others enjoyed Standing Still while Scott sat on the sidelines and struggled not to cry.

It was a memory he had tried to ignore for a long time. He didn't know what had brought it up now, besides how alone he felt. It was early afternoon. Ororo was still asleep and Jean thought he was crazy. Just like on Standing Still, he felt alone.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump.

"Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up."

Jean sat beside him and Scott couldn't help but think of how Ororo would have reacted. _You scare too easily!_ It was always a competition with Ororo, like a game, in a way Jean just didn't approach him.

"So… I talked to Professor Xavier about what you told me," Jean said, "and he told me that a lot of it's true."

Scott was surprised. "A lot?"

 _A lot?_ He thought he'd told Jean the truth!

"He said he never met any aliens, so he couldn't confirm that part."

Well, that was fair enough.

"I should've believed you."

Scott shook his head. "No, you shouldn't. I told you an outlandish story, it's not unreasonable for you to verify with someone you trust."

She bit her lip, but she didn't argue.

"I've, um, been having kind of a hard time here. I was… jealous. Because I thought, I mean, I've known Professor Xavier for years and I'd never met you and Ororo, never even heard of you. I thought—you showed up out of the blue and it was like you were family. I didn't see how that was possible. You didn't have a history and I did, how could you… it was just tough. But I get it now. And I really appreciate you telling me the truth. Thanks for trusting me, Scott."

A small part of him, a part he didn't like, wanted to point out that she hadn't afforded him the same courtesy. She hadn't trusted him. But he had known she wouldn't, and they weren't really the same, were they?

To his surprise, Jean reached over and took his hand.

"You like me, right?"

"Jean, of course I like you."

In more ways than one. She had her hair loose, an almost hesitant smile on her face, absurdly perfect freckles.

"Not like that," she replied, lacing her fingers through his. Her knuckles brushed against his thigh and how did she do that to him, shoot lightning right to his heart? "I mean," she said, shifting closer, "you _like_ me. Oh my god, Scott, please say you like me or this is going to be so embarrassing."

"I… I like you."

* * *

 

The world blurred. Fuzzy dark shadows…

Ororo squeezed her eyes shut. She laced her fingers together and stretched her hands above her head, pointed her toes straight back from her head. Her muscles were sore and cramped, like she hadn't moved in days.

She reached for the lamp and opened her eyes again. Vaguely she noticed the window, how dark it was outside. But she noticed something else, something much clearer and far more important.

Someone had left a water bottle by her bed. Suddenly she realized how desperately she wanted it—needed it. Her body felt like a washcloth wrung out so dry it would never hold water again. Like she had been wandering the desert for days….

Ororo sat up, pushing the covers off. She tore the cap off the water bottle and gulped. It didn't taste as good as water from a trickling stream in the desert—sand and grit tasted better than fluoride—but it was still a sweet relief.

At least until it shot through her in a second. Or maybe all that time she had been asleep was weighing down on her, because she needed to pee like six hours ago. She left the blanket trailing across the bedroom floor and bolted for the bathroom.

Ororo had never been a big fan of clothes. It wasn't exactly a cultural issue. When she was little, she had worn a hijab to hide the color of her hair. But her body never felt right when it wasn't touching the elements; she didn't like having cotton between her skin and the wind. So waking up naked didn't concern her. It happened a lot. She was more comfortable that way.

She pulled on a t-shirt and boxers, ran a hand through her hair, and headed for the kitchen. She remembered the party, a pill that stuck in her throat, making out with some people from her class, and then… it was there, but different. Brighter and softer, more feelings than memories. She had definitely been asleep for a while, though. Her mind and body felt… odd. Too much sleep.

She wandered out to the kitchen. Jean and Scott were there, a GED guidebook open on the table but from the tones of the conversation, not doing much studying.

"Hey," Ororo said.

They both looked surprised.

"Morning," Scott said.

Jean went to Ororo and hugged her like they hadn't seen each other in months—which was weird, because they had barely known each other for months, but nice and warm.

"You okay?" she asked.

Ororo nodded. "Yeah."

"There's pizza," Scott said, indicating the box on the counter.

Oh, that was needed.

It was cold, but that didn't matter. Ororo chewed her way through two slices, thinking about how this would be _awesome_ on molly. Hot pizza, though. Cold pizza, the sauce was too squidy, cheese didn't stretch that fun way.

"So, how long did I sleep?"

"A while," Scott said.

"I guess like… twenty, twenty-one hours?" Jean said. "Most of the day."

"Professor Xavier wants to see you."

"Yeah, but that can wait, right?"

"She should know."

"Scott, she just got up!"

"Like it's my fault sh—"

"I can hear you," Ororo said. They were going on like she wasn't in the room. She was pretty sure she still was. She was standing there, chewing at the pizza rind. Scott and Jean were talking like she wasn't, though, so she chucked the rind in the trash. "Whatever. I'll go talk to him."

"No," Jean said, quickly, "Ororo, you don't have to go right now, that's not what he meant—"

She shrugged. "Might as well."

That, and she didn't want to stay in the kitchen.

She didn't know if she felt like Jean was stealing Scott from her or Scott was stealing Jean, just that they were closer to each other than to her—in that moment, anyway. Just in that moment. But knowing so made it no less painful a moment.

Professor Xavier wasn't in his office. She tracked him down in the library. Rather than saying anything, she flopped down in a comfy chair and waited.

He placed a bookmark, closed the book, and set it aside.

"So," Ororo said.

"Indeed."

She didn't say anything further, just raised her eyebrows.

"How was it?" Professor Xavier asked.

Ororo's eyebrows were already raised. Now they jolted so far her head moved forward to accommodate, mouth open. Had he really just… did he ask that… what about…

"Ororo," the Professor said, quite calmly, "it was your first time on methylenedioxymethamphetamine." He said that like it was a normal word that people used. "Ecstasy is a… unique experience. I thought you might like to discuss how it felt."

"Um… yeah. Am I not in trouble, then?"

"Oh, of course you are, you're going to be grounded for quite a while, I'm afraid. To school and back, nothing more."

"That sucks.

"It's meant to suck, Ororo. It's a punishment."

When he put it that way, it made sense. She still didn't like it, but she understood.

"Huh. Well. I was like… really, really in love with everyone. Everything was bigger and brighter, I was feeling more. It was like I was happy because my body was happy, I didn't have feelings as in feelings, you know? I just felt with my body and everything felt good. Even when I stubbed my toe, it hurt, but it was this massive feeling. Not pain, just the feeling of feeling.

"And then… I said something-things I probably shouldn't've. Jean and Scott just wanted to go home, but we drove past the field where Scott and I first landed. I needed to be there again. I literally needed, I had to. I had to feel the air and the rain—a part of me knew it was only temporary and I wanted to feel everything while I could. I needed the world up against me."

She was aware now of how she was, of her disheveled hair, the dirty t-shirt and boxers she used for pajamas, the taste of pizza and unbrushed teeth. Tiredness clung to her from too much sleep.

And yet…

"I will never feel that good again, will I?"


	37. Mom

On the last day of school, Scott waited for the girls at the corner of McKinley and Twelfth. He was supposed to meet them outside the school, but after twenty minutes got annoyed and hungry—mostly hungry—and texted the girls that he would meet them outside McDonald's.

McDonald's wasn't as good as it used to be, and everything was huge, but it still tasted okay. Like fried food and salt.

There was no question when the girls drove up. Usually he and Ororo argued about shotgun. Now it was a routine—simple, basic, but still something he would miss. They wouldn't wake up every morning and go to school together. Jean…

He hopped in the backseat.

"We got you a cookie," Ororo said, offering him a paper bag.

Scott hesitated. He could smell the cookie from here. He wasn't hungry. (Now… though he expected he would be five minutes later.) He could take it and hang onto it, have it for a snack later.

But…

"You really shouldn't be sneaking around."

"We're not sneaking," Jean said, then hit the brakes too hard at a stop sign. "Professor Xavier knows we're out."

"He thinks you're going to school!"

"Scott, it's really not a big deal," Jean said.

"They're good cookies," Ororo added.

Scott sighed and grabbed the pastry, trying not to feel complicit. Jean's class had ended a week earlier, but rather than stop going, she had continued driving to school every day, mostly to hang out with Ororo—who had stopped going to her classes and was meant to be grounded. It was a lot of dishonesty. Scott did not approve.

His disapproval changed exactly bunk, so he slipped the cookie into his bag. Besides, this would be Ororo's last day of freedom. Then she was _really_ grounded, no excuse to sneak out.

Jean met Scott's eyes in the rearview mirror. Even through his glasses, they both knew that had happened, and she smiled at him. That damn smile. She had a way of melting him down with it, reminding him of the taste of her mouth…

"How was the last day, Scott?" Jean asked.

"It was good. I'll miss it, but I feel way readier to use the computer now." The intro to computers class had been intended for people who needed a little less intro, and Scott had scrambled to catch up those first few weeks. Now he felt competent with this thing so integral to life in the twenty-first century. He was quite proud of himself.

"I get that," Jean agreed.

By the time they reached home, Ororo had decided that Scott was too much of a goody-two-shoes and didn't deserve a cookie, and that the reasonable thing was to retrieve the cookie, something Scott disagreed with, and she made a grab for his backpack as they headed through the door. Scott shoved her off but she bounced back.

Jean hung back, as she did whenever they got into it with each other. That, and Scott doubted she was after the cookie.

At the same time, Scott and Ororo heard from the next room: "Sounds like they have not changed…"

They froze. Ororo had her hands firmly latched to Scott's backpack, Scott halfway to having her in a headlock. They glanced at each other, grinned, then stopped fighting.

"Who's—" Jean asked, but Scott and Ororo were gone.

They had recognized the voice, but that was nothing compared to the feeling of seeing Ruth in the sitting room.

She was an old woman now. Her face was softer, her hair white, her hands wrinkled—but she carried herself like a soldier still, and her eyes were the same. Her smile, too.

"Mom!"

Pillows were different in outer space. At least, the pillows on the Starjammer were different. They were some sort of smart synth fabric, slick—inflated. They were strange but comfortable, fine to sleep on. They were always cool, which was nice. There was no 'cold side of the pillow'.

They weren't good for crying into, though, and Scott had needed that. He ended up balling up his shirt in his mouth so no one would hear him, because it ripped him up inside to realize he might never see his mom and dad again. The first time, as a child, he hadn't understood. He did this time and he felt himself collapsing inside.

Now he didn't think before throwing his arms around Ruth. He was taller now—than he had been, than she was. And that felt different, that she was here now but not the same. He didn't know that Ororo was thinking the same, but he felt her beside him. She had done the same, run to Ruth and hugged her.

Ruth hadn't responded terribly differently. She was shorter than him now but as strong as ever, holding them.

"We missed you," Ororo murmured.

"I missed you, too."

After a while, Scott knew he was holding on too long, but he wasn't the only one. None of them wanted to let go.

Ruth had to push them away. She had to—to behave as an adult, because the kids couldn't.

"Let me look at you. Oh, you grew up," she told Ororo, which was true. The past year, she had changed. She learned to dress as a woman on other planets, something Ororo had loved and Scott found very awkward. Other planets were not so puritanical as the United States in 1963. Other planets encouraged showing off curves!

"And Scott, you're so tall! And you really need a haircut, what do you call this?" she asked, plucking at his hair. She was right, of course. He hadn't had it cut in months. When Professor Xavier first found Scott, he mistook him for a girl. His hair wasn't quite that long, but it was approaching androgyny.

"Ah, we're working on that," Professor Xavier chimed in.

"What working on? Get some scissors, I can fix it."

Scott shook his head, but he was glad he didn't need to explain. Professor Xavier did: "We need his social worker's permission."

"For a haircut?" Ruth asked.

Scott and Ororo nodded.

"That is stupid."

"Yes, it is," Professor Xavier agreed mildly. "This is Jean. Jean, this is Ruth. She was Ororo and Scott's foster mother."

Jean, who had been standing hesitant in the doorway, stepped forward and shook Ruth's hand. "It's nice to meet you. I've heard so many good things."

"She knows," Ororo added. "Scott opened his big mouth."

"Oh, yeah, and you want to tell why?" Scott retorted.

Ororo gave him a look the equivalent of her middle finger.

Scott opened his mouth.

Ororo kicked him.

Professor Xavier and Ruth looked at one another.

"Well, I'll remind you of the reason you agreed to be part of the academy, Ruth. You were all set to turn me down… until you saw Alex and Scott beating the hell out of each other."

"I hit him first," Scott said. "Although… he sort of deserved it."


	38. Robot

Ruth commandeered the kitchen that night.

A little past seven, she and Ororo sat at the kitchen table with cups of mint tea. When Ruth first spoke to Ororo, both were surprised at how slow Ororo was to understand. She hadn't heard Arabic in a long time.

But as Ruth bossed her through mixing up a batter and they worked together on a marinade, her mind put the pieces together properly. She remembered how to speak, how to think, how to be the girl she used to be. And now, as they chatted, she didn't know how she had ever forgotten.

"…and Sikorsky, of course he never slept, so I would wake up to him hovering over my chest or monitoring my breathing, it was actually an unnerving way to recover being watched like that. But I was taken care of."

Ruth scoffed over the rim of her teacup. "By a machine!"

"I got better, didn't I?" Ororo retorted.

"I suppose."

The clink of a teacup on a saucer, then they were quiet for a moment. Ororo felt it, the distance between then and now, but it wasn't for their surroundings. She was used to losing places. She had lost a lot of them in her short life. But…

She dipped a fingertip in her tea. "I went to Scott's room at night," Ororo said, sliding her damp fingertip in circles around the cup's lip. "Night is sort of abstract on a ship, but when the lights dimmed and they decided it was time for night, that was when I went to Scott's bed. We were close because we had to be. It's all we had. But now…"

"Ororo, I see you two together. Scott still loves you as his sister."

"But he doesn't need me anymore, and I miss him. And I don't like sharing him with Jean, and I don't like sharing Jean with him. Everyone always outgrows me. I thought this would be different! I thought, because he didn't age—but then Hank fixed him, and now…"

Ruth scooted her chair around to hug Ororo. "And now you are alone," she murmured, "I know this." She kissed Ororo's forehead. "But bati, you must stop feeling jealous."

The timer dinged before Ororo recovered the shock of the accusation. Jealous? She wasn't jealous!

Was she?

She watched Ruth open the oven, the steam dampening her face. She didn't cook like other people. Her body resisted threats and dangers. Like it was nothing, Ruth took the hot cake pan from the oven with her bare hand, holding it as she poured cinnamon syrup over the cake.

"You are helping or you are not?" she asked. "I need my ghee melted!"

Ororo scrambled out of her chair.

No one had cooked specially for her before Ruth. Well—probably her mother cooked for her when she was small. She didn't remember. But then it was a communal pot, what could be scrounged or pinched in Cairo, what anyone else had among the Maasai, the same bland nonsense as all the other girls in the orphanage. But Ruth made her Egyptian food and Ororo's memory of the warmth and scents and specialness of kitchens were tied to this kitchen, this woman.

She watch as Ruth poured out a splash of melted ghee over a ball of ajeen awees—pale, wet dough. Ruth pushed and pulled until the fist-sized ball covered the cutting board, thin as a fingernail. Her hands were different now. The skin was not so tight and wrinkles filled the extra space. But they moved with confidence as she spread ghee between layers of dough, folding it into a package, sure and smooth movements.

Since they came home, Scott had done most of the cooking. He wasn't bad at it—but he had learned that he couldn't handle too much. And everyone else had learned that you could actually make a wide variety of foods in casserole form.

Still—there were home-cooked meals and there were home-cooked meals.

Ororo looked at the table Ruth had laid out and she almost burst out crying. It was the sort of table you dreamed about as a hungry child sleeping on the streets of Cairo: fteer meshaltet, flaky pastry stuffed with cheese and olives; sliced cucumbers and tomatoes; marinated kebabs; salty toasted almonds.

Jean summed it up best: "And you got off a plane this morning? Are you a robot?"

"Yes."

"I forgot how much I missed your cooking," Hank said.

"Now you are knowing it! So long he is in his lab," Ruth told Jean. "He only comes out because Charles makes him. Now he knows better."

Hank kissed her cheek. "Yes, Mother."

"Professor Xavier said we had to act like a family," Scott said.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Sorry, Professor."

Scott was the most opportunistic around a meal. He was still a part of the conversation, to be sure, but mostly he was sitting at the table, munching on fteer meshaltet.

"God, you're shameless," Jean teased.

"That is true, though, I did make Hank leave his lab every day," Professor Xavier confirmed. "We were in no way prepared to care for a child—"

"Charles, that makes us sound like a couple," Hank interrupted.

"I thought you were," Scott volunteered, earning himself another look for talking with his mouth full.

"It's no less true."

"It was torture," Scott said. "I was so shy, but I was always hungry." As if to emphasize the point, he reached for another piece of pastry. "But… it was good for me," he ceded.

"What was the school really like then?" Jean asked.

"Well, this was before it was a school," Professor Xavier said.

"And before me or Ruth," Ororo added. "It was a… sausage game?"

"Sausage party," Jean corrected.

"It was really more of a bacon party…"

"Scott, when she says sausage party, she means—"

"I know, Professor!" Scott interrupted, blushing. "Jeez…"

"Well, all right."

"I just meant because bacon was one of those things we usually had in the house."

"Bacon was one of those things we were always running out of," Hank corrected.

"Really, Jean, it was… kind of like this, honestly," Scott said. "Us and Doug and Laurie and Alex and Sean. None of us was at the same place academically, so mostly we had more like independent study than actual classes. Then Sean and Alex would show up when Ruth was teaching us krav maga and me and Alex would get into it."

"Like fighting?" Jean asked.

"Every time," Ruth said. "Every time they are doing this! How is Alex now?"

"He's doing really well," Scott said. "His wife's in remission and his daughter and granddaughter are living with them. He says Annie likes to think she's miserable and make all these obstacles for herself, but you can tell he really loves her. And he wants Daisy to try this contest to design a mural for the rec center."

"Of course, that might require showing up on time!" Hank replied. He, Charles, and Scott laughed—it seemed Daisy had inherited her father's general attitude toward timeliness.

It wasn't intended as a party, but it quickly became one. It was easier to talk about the past now. They were happy. Scott and Ororo learned that Ruth had returned to Israel and worked for Mossad ever since the 60s; even Hank talked more about his return to academia. Jean learned more about the school as it was, and the time Scott decided to try hiding a cat in his room.

Finally, when somehow ten o'clock had rolled around, and the table was a clutter of empty plates and a few leftover cake slices, they started leaving the table. Mostly everyone headed for their beds. Scott volunteered to wash dishes and Ruth said she would help, refusing Hank's offer to take her place.

She tossed a dishtowel to Scott. "You can dry?"

"Okay."

"I missed you, you know."

He nodded. "I know. I missed you, too."

There wasn't much to talk about. They didn't need to talk. They just needed to be nearby one another.

Still, there was a question Scott expected to be asked. Ruth didn't ask, so he told her anyway: "Chris did take care of us. It wasn't the same, and we missed you every day, but you should know that we were safe. He… tried."

Ruth nodded. "This is good," she said.

He had never heard her sound choked up before. It was almost alarming.

"I worried."

"And I know you and the Professor aren't so close anymore, but—thanks for being here. It means a lot."

Ruth started to shake her head, then paused to give him an even look. She stroked his hair back away from his glasses.

"You are still my son. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Now." She pulled him close and kissed his cheek. "Go to bed. Tomorrow is a big awkward day."

"Awkward?"

Ruth responded with a look.

"Yeah. It's going to be awkward."


	39. Pumpkin Bags

Annie pretended she wasn't listening, focused determinedly on her Lucky Charms while her grandma tried to convince her grandpa to go to church.

"If there was ever a time to believe in miracles," her grandma said.

Her grandpa laughed the way he did when he had something rude to say but didn't want to say it. "I love you."

Daisy scrunched Annie's hat—ruffling the hair of someone who didn't want you seeing her increasingly terrible dye job. "Be good for Grandpa."

"Aw, Mom!" Annie groaned.

What was it about moms that they seemed to think you were a little kid? She was old enough to walk herself to school, not still young enough to need that kind of telling around.

When they were gone, Alex joined Annie at the kitchen table, a mug of black coffee in his hand.

"I'm cleaning the windows today. You're welcome to keep me company."

She thought about that. It was weird, the way her grandpa knew that, the way he planned on it. When you were retired, was cleaning the windows a big deal? Something to look forward to?

"Old people do boring stuff."

"Only the ones who were wild in our youth," Alex replied. "Everything I wanted to do has been done. What I have left is cleaning the windows."

"And not going to church with Grandma."

He laughed. "That one's not age-specific."

Annie liked her grandparents' kitchen. They had hanging copper baskets with fruits in them, a coffee grinder, and a microwave that really only saw use for popcorn when they were watching a movie. Annie couldn't cook and Daisy wasn't much for it, either. Their old apartment had a lot of pizza and hot pockets—always enough food, as long as no one had to cook it.

Out of the blue, Alex volunteered, "My brother hated church."

He might have stopped there, but Annie looked up from picking the marshmallows out of her cereal. It was a careful business, spooning up marshmallows and milk but leaving the other bits behind. She paused and looked up, asking him to continue.

"Our parents'd brought us up Protestants the first couple years, and after they died we were both raised Catholic in Omaha. Lotta Catholics in Omaha. Somewhere along the way, Scott started to hate the church and hate God. I never did learn why, but when those articles started coming out about the Catholic church…"

"You think your brother was one of those boys?"

Alex shook his head. "I have no idea. But I know that somewhere along the way, Scott started to believe the world was evil. Every evil would come down, he believed that, and as long as it happened to him it wouldn't happen to someone else."

Annie thought about that. It was an interesting way to see the world, really. Sometimes she thought about her dad that way, like maybe he had a family somewhere, that type of family he stayed with. She had never met her dad. If that hadn't happened, if she grew up with a father instead, would some other kid lose their dad? If her mom didn't lose her job, would someone else have lost theirs? What if that person didn't have parents they could move home to?

It wasn't comparable to the church situation, of course. Annie and her mom didn't control the economy. It rolled them like bad pennies, and someone was at fault, but it wasn't them. Not like those messed up priests. Still—maybe bad things did have to happen to someone.

Or maybe Alex's brother was just a weirdo with a martyr complex.

"No offense, but that's messed up, Grandpa."

"I never said it wasn't messed up."

"Why are you telling me this? About your brother and… creepy priests?"

"Because you're curious," Alex replied, "and you like dark things."

For the rest of the morning, they washed the windows. When those were done, they moved on to cleaning the yard. Alex raked the leaves. Annie pulled on a pair of gardening gloves and shoved handful after handful into garbage bags.

"We'll have to get those pumpkin bags this year," Alex said.

"Pumpkin bags?"

"You know, the orange bags with jack-o-lantern faces. They put 'em out around Halloween time."

Annie shook her head. "I'm not a kid, Grandpa."

"Yes you are."

"Okay, well, I'm not a kid who wants to play Halloween."

"Really? You used to love it. You dressed up as a mermaid three years in a row."

Annie vaguely remembered that. She had seen the pictures, too. When she was little, her mom made her costumes, really amazing things. One year, her mom turned her into an autumn mermaid, the colors of changing leaves and the harsh beauty of the Atlantic coast in her costume. Another year she wore a giant conch skirt that swirled and layered like the shells themselves.

She used to love Halloween.

"This Halloween I might be a mutant."

"That's always been the truth," Alex said. "Anyone can be a mutant, not just people whose grandfathers are mutants."

"Grandfathers and creepy guys who aren't actually your uncle," Annie added. There wasn't _actually_ anything wrong with Charles, he had never actually done anything bad. He was just a weird guy.

"And that."

"Look, Mom and Grandma."

They pulled into the driveway. Alex waved, and it was lame, but after a moment Annie stopped scratching through her wool hat and waved, too. Her mom and grandma came over.

"This is what you two've been up to?" Daisy asked.

"That and world domination, sweetheart," Alex replied. "How was church?"

"It was nice. Are you coming in with us?"

"I have some things to finish up out here, I'll be in soon. Annie?"

She shook her head. "I'll stay and help you out."

"Wonderful."

As her mom and grandma headed back inside, Annie said, "Tell me about Uncle Scott."

Her mom froze in a way Annie had never seen before. Annie liked to push boundaries, but that shock was new.

Daisy crossed the yard in seconds. "Annie, how can you say that? I expected better, you have no idea—"

"Daze," Alex interrupted. He shook his head, walking over to her. Annie kept stuffing leaves into garbage bags, but she moved slower, straining to hear. "It's okay. I said it was okay."

Daisy looked between Alex and Annie, aghast. She shook her head. "Dad."

"I didn't say anything because I thought it might upset you. I'm ready to talk about the past. I know not everyone is."

"She's my daughter. This is a hell of a thing not to tell me!"

"Daisy…"

She shook her head.

"We'll talk about it later."

Annie stuffed the leaves faster as Alex returned, like she had never been listening in, didn't know how her mom had been so upset. And didn't want to hear more, anyway, even though her mom didn't want her to hear it.

Whether her mom liked it or not, Uncle Scott was still her family.

Apparently Alex agreed, because he said, "Your uncle liked to hide snacks in his room. He would pick the stupidest things. Once, when he was about six, it was a thermos of milk. He stored the thermos under his bed, where he promptly forgot about it until it soured and stank. Box of Honey Nut Cheerios that attracted several armies of ants. Chocolate bars under his pillow in August that melted. He loved his snacks."

 


	40. Birthday

"So, what's with the fuss?" Jean asked. She and Scott sat on the grass, enjoying the day. The weather had not quite turned, but the air was sharp with a promise of autumn just around the corner. And today was just a nice day to relax and hang out.

They had a bucket of ping-pong balls, but those could wait.

"There's no fuss," Scott replied.

Jean laughed and nudged his shoulder. "The no-fuss _is_ the fuss. Most people like a bit of fuss."

He shrugged.

"I wasn't going to say anything, but I heard you talking to Professor Xavier back in June. You didn't even want to tell him. Why not?"

"It just seemed—it didn't seem important."

"Okay, I'll tell you what. I'm not going easy on you today. I'll bet you're over five strikes. And _when_ I win, you'll tell me what's behind the aversion. Deal?"

"What do I get if I win?"

Jean grinned. "I'll think of something."

With a flick of her wrist, she raised the ping-pong balls into the air.

"We couldn't do tennis balls?"

"Nope."

Because tennis balls were easy.

Scott didn't know how Jean thought in the ways she did. She telekinetically arranged the ping-pong balls in a three-dimensional pattern. Scott slowly walked around it, taking in the position of each ball and angle—then he blasted the first one.

The blast bounced, zapping between several balls and leaving them shaking a bit before Jean managed to stabilize them. Scott let her gain control before blasting again, again watching the light bounce between the balls. The next time, he used the tremble in the balls to reach more and bounce farther.

After the fifth, Jean lowered the balls gently to the ground.

As Scott helped collect them, checking each one for dings. It was a funny deal: if he hadn't been good enough at this, he would tell her a secret. He was a little nervous… but maybe it was okay. He could see risking telling Jean something personal. Though he didn't know how else he would mention it—or why.

"Ha," Jean announced, holding three perfect ping-pong balls. "So what is it? You didn't want to tell Professor Xavier when your birthday is, what's up with that? Shouldn't he have your birth certificate already or something, I mean, or access or… someone would have it, wouldn't they?"

Scott shook his head. "In the 1960s, things were different, and now who would believe I was born in 1937?"

"Were you?"

He nodded.

"So you're 73?"

"I'm—it's complicated, Jean—"

"Hang on, if you were born in 1937, in 1962 you should have been 25."

"I don't age right—I didn't. Hank fixed me."

"So what's with the secrecy?"

"Birthdays are important for Ruth. Professor Xavier knew though—from my paperwork. It was just a matter of whether or not we told anybody else. I don't like a lot of fuss. I had a hard time growing up and my birthday just felt like a countdown. You know, I'd be 18 and on my own. And before I didn't know my birthday. Neither did Ororo, we both lost our parents when we were so young, but she picked hers. I think maybe because she'd always been so strong, being alone, it didn't scare her."

When Jean asked her next question it was much gentler. She had moved closer, close enough to take his hand.

"Are you going to be okay today?"

Scott nodded. "It's for Ruth and the Professor. Real parents… their kids have birthdays. They're my real parents."

"That's sweet."

"And it is my real birthday. The years changed and, yeah, time got pretty messed up, but, um, my father—he remembers. Ruth and the Professor want this and I want them to have it. I just wish it didn't need to be me in the middle."

Jean kissed him.

"I get that just for losin', huh?"

"You get that because you're a good person."

* * *

 

"Now, traditionally, we would tell stories that embarrass the birthday boy," Hank began.

"You could still do that," Jean suggested. "Like, I'd love to know what actually happened with the laundry room door…"

"I still don't understand it," Ororo said. "That was before I got here."

Ostensibly, it wasn't a birthday party. It was just dinner. But with old friends and so many people, there was no way to spot the difference. It was a party, and a birthday, and there happened to be overlap.

"It was… it was silly," Hank replied.

"It was the beginning of training," Scott said. "The laundry room door was broken. Me and Hank took it down and took the pieces outside. I used them for target practice with the first prototype of a ruby quartz visor."

"Oh, cool," Jean said.

"They're leaving out a rather important part of the story," Charles commented. "Scott and Alex had a fight. Alex's power produces a similar but non-identical energy output; when they broke the laundry room door, Scott claimed he had done it."

"Which I was grounded for," Scott added.

"You were grounded for lying about it," Hank reminded him.

"The door got broken and I was grounded."

"And those are facts, but your phrasing implies a false causation."

"Hang on," Jean interrupted, "why did Scott get grounded?"

"Lying," Scott explained. "Alex broke the door, I said it was me…"

"You've never done that for me," Ororo said.

"I've done that tons of times for you! Our powers aren't that similar. It doesn't usually work."

"Oh, name one time."

"The Vaartakki forest!"

"Okay, that—"

"Lost Lake."

"Barely!"

"The flint barrel."

"Well… yes, that time…"

"The spaghetti incident—"

"That one doesn't count!"

"It counts."

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

The discussion continued that way until it devolved into shoving, something a step too far for Charles, and Ruth said two words in Hebrew. It was enough to make them sit still—or at least mumble apologies and return to eating dinner.

"Which is about what the school was like, to answer your question, Jean," Hank said.

Later, when the cake was brought out, Scott resisted the urge to squirm. "It's not… candles, is it?"

"Of course it has candles!" Ruth replied. "Blow them out and get it over with!"

So Scott leaned forward and blew.

There had been a time that Ororo wanted nothing more than chocolate cake. After Doug wanted vanilla cupcakes on his birthday, Ororo badgered Scott to pick himself a birthday until finally Ruth realized what was going on and made her stop. It wasn't about the birthday. It was the cake.

Scott almost thought he might cry.

He'd never had a birthday before. Not since his sixth, anyway. Sometimes a teacher might give him a piece of candy, but nothing like a family that remembered and celebrated, no homemade cake with frosting and sprinkles.

He remembered being a kid in this same house, three or seventy years ago, when he first learned that there were people like him. Other mutants—the word 'mutants', he hadn't heard it before he arrived here. And everything from that moment, even the Sentinel attack, even the fights with Alex, it all led up to this wonderful, perfect moment of cake and sprinkles and people he loved.

There was a knot in his belly, though. Good things, in Scott's experience, were not known to last. 


	41. Twinkies

_"No. I won't."_

_He thought he knew what was coming. He thought… until the fist hit his ribs. He had taken punches before. This was different. It was inhumanly tough, more like a baseball bat than a fist. An aluminum bat._

_The first hit pushed the air out of his chest. At the second, he heard and felt a snap as his ribs broke. It wasn't the first time he'd had broken ribs. Still hurt._

_And when he still refused, the man with diamond skin shoved him to his knees, grabbed him by the hair, and wrestled an eyelid open. He fought—of course he fought—he didn't know why this was happening to him, but he wouldn't use it to commit crimes, he wouldn't use it to hurt people—not if he could help it—not if…_

Scott felt the darkness around him, his lungs starved like he had been holding his breath. The dream left his side aching in memory. For a few seconds, he lay in bed, adrenalized awareness coursing through him.

He was home safe in New York.

Then he realized—"Jean," he gasped, grabbing his glasses and pushing back the covers. He put the glasses on as he stepped into the hallway. Lately if Scott or Ororo had a nightmare, Jean had it, too. Which meant tonight she was experiencing the feeling of being beaten into submission by Jack Winters.

A part of him felt nauseous at the realization. He didn't want Jean to know about what he had done, or about how in Winters's custody he had stopped being a person. He didn't want anyone seeing him that way.

He slipped into her bedroom. It was mostly tidy, though his bare foot found something with a biting edge. The curtains were open and let in enough moonlight to make out the larger edges.

"Jean." Scott sat on the edge of her bed and found her shoulder in the darkness. "Jean, wake up!"

"Huh?" The air in the room seemed to change when she woke up. Jean shook her head. "Scott."

"You were having a nightmare."

"I remember. God, it was so messed up."

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked—because the last thing he wanted was to talk about it, but he had done this to Jean. The least he could do was listen.

For a moment, she was quiet. "Stay with me?"

Scott hesitated. He slept next to Ororo all the time, and it was no big deal. They were more comfortable together and would squeeze into smaller beds than this one… but that was Ororo. That was… that was just something they did! Being in bed with Jean was another thing entirely.

But she had asked, and it was his fault, so he slipped under the covers next to her. Jean cuddled against him and he wrapped an arm around her—just hoping she didn't notice certain other reactions. He couldn't help that!

"It was so creepy, Scott. I dreamed this guy, this really creepy guy, he hurt me, and then—oh my god, he was all over me. It wasn't even that scary, it was—I don't know—like horrible. It was horrible."

Scott murmured vague soothing noises. She had _definitely_ caught his dream.

"Oh god, you don't think—Scott, you don't think something like that happened to Ororo, do you?"

He tried not to sigh too audibly in relief. "I don't know. Maybe it was just a dream."

"Yeah… maybe." Abruptly, Jean changed the subject, "Do you think my parents will let me stay here?"

"What are you going to tell them?"

"That there are other mutants here. Other people like me, and Professor Xavier would never let anything happen to me. I can start at the community college, I already have a student ID number there. I still want to be a doctor—but whatever I do, I _am_ a mutant. I can be a mutant here, and I can't anywhere else. This… this is where I belong."

* * *

 

Most mornings, Scott ran. He would be out of bed early, outside, just moving—and for the past few months, 'early' was the only time that was possible. July and August were not the months for an afternoon run.

It was habit.

It was a good start to the day.

The light on his face told him he had overslept. Jean was asleep against him. The last few hours had been peaceful for both of them—no more nightmares. A part of Scott wanted to stay here against her for the rest of the day.

Jean stretched and squirmed as she woke. Her eyes opened and she seemed confused—then she smiled. "Hey you."

"Hey."

She shifted up to kiss him, something he knew shouldn't have been pleasant before they brushed their teeth—but this was Jean, the scent of her, the softness of her body against his. She kissed him, and it made his stomach dance, and—

Dammit.

Scott squirmed away.

"Hey—come back." She drew him back to her, murmuring, "It's okay, Scott." Murmuring, and kissing.

When she pulled off her shirt, he realized she meant to more than just kiss, and he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to, but—

"Are you sure?"

"Do you want to?" Jean asked.

"I—yes—"

"Good." She slid her hands under his shirt, but when she started to take it off, he pushed her hands away.

"—but… it's uh—different, for a guy, and uh—"

"I know what sex is, Scott. I know what I want."

She tried to take his shirt off again. Again he pushed her hands away.

"I thought you wanted to."

"I do."

More than he knew how to express in words!

Jean paused only a moment before accepting this. She threw one leg over him. Scott looked up at her—and noticed the door ajar behind her, and—

"Oh, shit."

He scrambled out from beneath Jean, any desire for her pushed aside for now.

"Scott?"

"I-I'm sorry," he managed, straightening his pajama bottoms before he rushed out. He pulled the door closed behind him—Jean was still undressed.

Scott hurried through the mansion, trying to sort through everything. He hadn't meant… he had nearly—and he knew he had just walked out on a beautiful woman he just might love, while they were about to—and he cared for her. This feeling he had, it might be love.

And a part of him knew she might not forgive him, and there might never be another morning that started so perfectly beside her.

He heard the front door slam and sped up, leaving the mansion just a few seconds behind.

"Ororo!"

She turned to him, still walking. "Go away!"

She was more upset than he had realized.

Scott didn't know why, really. He didn't think she had been spying, watching, or anything. She had gone looking for Jean… it was bad timing. Why she had looked so absolutely stricken, he didn't know. But she was upset now, crying—it was awkward, embarrassing, but he didn't know why she was crying.

"No. Ororo, we were going to tell you—"

"Stop following me! Just leave me alone!"

"I can't do that. Look, it was never meant to be a secret. I was going to tell you. We were still figuring it out ourselves. What we were, I mean."

Ororo didn't break her stride, and Scott jogged to catch up to her. Her two closest friends had neglected to tell her they were sort-of dating, she had every right to be hurt. He wasn't going to let her storm out like this, though.

"Hey—"

She turned and shoved him, both hands against his chest to force him back. "I hate you, you take everything from me!"

"What are you—no, I don't!"

"You do! Everything! You're everyone's favorite, always!"

Scott truly didn't understand what she meant. It was true that he had more biological relatives than she did, and he was aware of that. When Alex lived here, they knew he was Scott's biological brother, but he had teased them both in equal measure. Chris had been the same… although Scott knew Chris had worked harder to improve his relationship with Scott, it was only because Scott, well, had hated him at the start.

"That's not true—"

"It is true! Everyone, always! The Professor always spent more time with you than with me—"

"Because you're smarter than me!" Scott cried. It was easier to talk about the time spent studying, because of course she did not mean the nightmares. "Because I needed help where you didn't! You don't know how I was before I came here—"

"He loved you because you were broken, but he still loved you! Ruth called you her son!"

"And you were her daughter!"

"You didn't get grounded after the party!"

"I didn't get high!"

Scott didn't know what he had done. He didn't know how to fix this, just that he had never seen Ororo so upset. It was usually Scott falling to pieces, and Ororo holding him together.

"You're the one people like, Ororo. Not me. Because you're friendly, you're fun, you know how to talk to them. It was your friends having a party; I barely talked to anyone in my class. But you—they like you."

"They don't matter!" Ororo shouted. "They aren't important!" Thunder boomed, echoing her frustration. Pain. He didn't know what it was, but the thunder did. "Everyone I love loves you instead!"

Scott's eyes widened as the first drops of rain hit his glasses.

"No…"

He didn't want it to be true. It was too easy for Scott to know what Ororo felt right now, if she was saying what he thought she was saying, and if that was the case he had broken her heart.

She didn't say anything, but she looked away from him, and the expression on her face was answer enough.

"I'm so sorry."

Ororo wiped her face on her sleeve, but it didn't do any good. She was crying too hard.

"Come here."

She nodded, but didn't move.

Scott stepped closer. It was the second time he had held her in the rain. It was beyond unseasonable for New York in September, but neither of them questioned the rainstorm. They both knew where it came from.

He knew they shouldn't draw this kind of attention. Changes in weather patterns were big, obvious—like if Scott took his glasses off. This wasn't like Jean and Ororo playing with leaves on the side of the road.

For now, he didn't mention it, just let her cry herself out.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize… I didn't know."

Ororo nodded. It was drizzling now, and she was calmer.

"It doesn't bother you?" she asked, sniffling. "I thought…"

"C'mon, Ororo. I know how you feel about Twinkies."

She sniffled and tried to roll her eyes, but she ruined it by laughing. Scott didn't want to get too confident. She was still so emotional. But he smiled.

Then she said, "You washed your hands before you hugged me, right?"

Scott laughed.

"The rain took care of it."

"Gross."

They were soaked as they headed back to the mansion. Scott had one hand at his hip, gripping his pajama bottoms to keep them from falling off. Despite objections of grossness, Ororo held his free hand.

Neither was surprised to see Professor Xavier waiting for them.

"Is everything all right?"

Ororo and Scott glanced at each other.

"We probably should talk about this," Scott said. "Right?"

The Professor nodded. "I'm afraid so, but dry yourselves off and get changed first."

As they headed down the hallway, trying not to drip too much, Scott said, "At least we're not in trouble."

"We should be," Ororo replied. "It's your turn to be grounded!"


	42. Perfectly Normal

Scott had been in this room many times. The study hadn't changed much over the decades, although it did have a computer in it now and the chess board moved piece by piece. Those were very commonplace. The classic furniture remained, however, the room still set up almost exactly as it had been in 1962.

Probably for a while before that, as well!

Now it was reassuring, the familiarity.

"You're not in trouble," Professor Xavier began. "Jean told me why Ororo was upset and it sounds like something the three of you can resolve."

Scott nodded. He had taken a few minutes before coming to the office, time enough to towel off and change into dry clothes.

"There's another matter, however. You and Jean."

"Yes."

"You can't have sex."

It was so unexpected, for a moment Scott wasn't sure what he had heard. That was… not right. Not what Professor Xavier said, because it was personal. There was a time Scott might have discussed this with him—when he was another man—but now Scott couldn't imagine raising the subject.

"I understand you want to, and it's perfectly normal…"

Scott felt himself sinking lower in his seat. He'd had this conversation before. It had been embarrassing, but somehow this felt immeasurably worse.

He barely heard most of the explanation, but a few words stood out:

"…issues with consent—"

"Wait," Scott interrupted, "hang on—Professor, there wasn't any question about that! I asked, Jean said she wanted to, she was—I would never do that!"

He didn't entirely know how to talk to girls, Scott knew that. Sometimes he said the wrong thing and never did figure out why—girls were confusing! But he would _never_ hurt someone like that.

"You know me," he insisted. "How can you even think…"

"I don't," Professor Xavier said. "I know that neither you nor Jean would do such a thing, but under the law, a sixteen-year-old cannot consent. There's generally understanding for two minors, but because you are in foster care, we have to follow the letter of the law."

"But I asked her," Scott repeated. He remembered. He had been very clear, hadn't pushed. If anything, Jean had pushed him—and he had been happy to be pushed, but she was the one who knew. Who initiated. She had been on top of him! "Professor, _please_ , I didn't hurt her! Did… did she say…"

Scott knew he had upset Jean—had hurt her feelings. He had seen the look on her face when he left. For that he owed her an apology. Before that, though, he hadn't been inappropriate.

"No, she isn't saying that. And I know you would never do such a thing, Scott, it's simply the way the law is written. The State of New York says you're not ready."

"Wha… _New York State?_ " Scott managed.

He had been hit in the chest before.

It felt pretty similar.

"New York State gets to decide when me and Jean…"

Professor Xavier nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Why!"

"I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but age of consent laws exist for a reason. They're meant to protect children and—I'm sorry, Scott, but were you in the care of a biological parent, you and Jean could make your own choices, but—"

"But I'm a foundling," Scott practically spat.

He wished he were angry, but what he really felt was hurt. The past years, he had worked so hard to remove himself from the child he had been. He wasn't small or frightened anymore, or weak. He knew that he was a person who mattered and who was loved. Back in Omaha, Scott had been a little boy who believed he would never amount to anything because he was no good. Years of listening to Mr. Milbury's lies had left Scott convinced that he was stupid and bad and worthless.

Now he knew different, but knowledge and feelings were very different. Learning to know was so much easier than learning to feel. He had learned that he mattered but not forgotten the pain of his believed insufficiencies, and being a foundling again revived the hurt.

Scott swallowed.

"You've asked me in the past to use my telepathy to make social services overlook certain regulations, but—"

"No, I won't ask again. It doesn't matter," he said. "Jean—probably won't even want to talk to me. Let alone break the law together."

So what did it matter that New York owned his body? Besides, even if Jean was willing to speak to him, they would wait. He couldn't do that to Ororo.

"And—that's probably for the best," he continued, "because, um… the thing is," and it was immensely difficult to admit, "I think I'm some sort of sex-pervert."

Scott had made mistakes before and done dumb stuff. He had been grounded for sneaking out and lying, and occasionally hit his brother although Alex never had a hard time hitting him back. This was different. It felt like a deep, personal failing, like there was something wrong with him.

"You’re not a sex-pervert."

"I might be!"

"Why do you think that?"

"Because!" Scott said, feeling his face go hot. He hadn't meant to do it—it just happened. He focused on the edge of the desk as he continued, "I—like Jean, but every time I'm around her—if I touch her, I—I—react. I think about her all the time. Sometimes she's all I think about. It's not just Jean, either, she just—she's… I think about these things all the time, and—there's something wrong with me. There's something really, really wrong with me."

"Oh, Scott. There's nothing wrong with you. It's perfectly normal for a boy your age to experience certain preoccupations."

This was normal?

They would be studying together and her leg would brush against his and suddenly he wasn't thinking about algebra anymore…

Scott shook his head. "I was never like this before."

"You never had those feelings?"

"Well—sometimes, but—but not all the time! It just—for no reason, I get—like that."

"Do you realize what this means?"

He didn't. Apparently it didn't mean he was a sex-pervert, though.

"Hank's serum worked."

_What?_

"You've been experiencing adolescence at a decelerated rate. The sudden flood of hormones is overwhelming you because you're not used to it, that's all. It's an awkward sign, yes—but a good one."

A good one!

He was _normal._ He was going to grow up, to have birthdays that meant something, to become an adult alongside his friends instead of just watching them and being left behind. He couldn't wait to tell Hank his experiment had been a success! It would mean more blood draws, but for the first time in his life, Scott didn't mind.

Suddenly he cared a lot less about not being able to have sex. It was easier to wait for seventeen when you knew the age was waiting for you!

But…

"There's one more thing, Professor."

"What is it?"

"I haven't heard from Alex in a few days. He promised to call me on my birthday and he didn't. Could you try to get in touch with him, just to make sure everything's okay?"

"Yes, of course."

"Thank you."

"Don't take this to mean Alex doesn't care."

"No, I wouldn't. I just want to make sure he's okay."

"Are you okay?"

Scott nodded. "I'm fine." Okay, so his girlfriend was pissed at him and things were definitely going to be weird with his sister for a while. So he had just learned he aged normally and New York said that despite being born in the Great Depression, he was too young to make choices about his body.

Nothing too far out of the ordinary!


	43. Voodoo Parts

"Make sense of this for me," Ruth said.

Ororo shook her head. "I can't."

"Why?"

"Why didn't you and Charles stay together?"

"Because we were damaged." It was a rather matter-of-fact tone for so serious an answer. That was about what Ororo expected from Ruth, the sort of honesty she valued. Ruth wouldn't lie. She just told you she wouldn't answer. "We lost you. I was so hurt, and when I am hurt I become angry. I could not be around anymore. Not Charles. Not here. For years, we did not speak, because it hurt too much to remember. Not everyone can be as tough as you are."

Ororo looked down at her toes, then out across the lawn. She and Ruth sat on the front steps. The New York heat had settled in quickly, burning off the damp from Ororo's rainstorm that morning.

Ruth was the strongest person Ororo had ever known. Her mother. Physically—Hank was stronger physically. But Ruth was like Ororo only stronger. She went through torments and came out a better person, like Ororo walking through the desert, physical but more than that emotional.

She didn't know how she felt, to hear that Ruth thought Ororo was the stronger.

"What if I don't want to be tough?" Ororo asked. "Being tough means being alone."

"It doesn't have to."

"I'm tough because I act on how I feel instead of saying it. And because when I act, it's smart. Scott punched his father in the face."

Ruth raised her eyebrows. "Charles?"

Ororo shook her head. "His other father. Chris took us away from you. Scott wanted to kill him, I think. Why isn't that strength?"

"Impulsive and strong are different things. To say how you feel, that is a kind of strength."

"Not a kind I have," Ororo replied. "Scott knows how I am feeling. Mostly. But when he misses something—when he misses something big… and then…"

"And then what happened this morning."

Ororo nodded.

"Which is what?"

"Which is I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," Ruth agreed.

Ororo had not expected Ruth to push her. Ruth pushed them physically, had always expected more in martial arts than either Scott or Ororo thought they could give. It was Charles who pushed them emotionally.

Ruth only had a week before she went back to Israel. Ororo just wished the week hadn't been such a broken one.

Scott and Jean were a mess with each other, and Ororo didn't want to talk to Jean—something that clearly wounded the other girl, and Ororo was sorry for that, but just looking at Jean made her too upset to have a rational conversation. She knew she was avoiding Jean, and she knew she was being mean, but being a little mean was better than being very mean. Especially if it was the best you had.

Ororo didn't want to talk to Professor Xavier, either, although she was less sure why she was upset with him. She just knew that the thought of talking to him made her jaw hurt.

At least, with Ruth here, she was on speaking terms with half the house.

* * *

 

Several hours later she sat outside, leaning against the back of the house and working a wad of gum around her mouth. She wasn't good at gum.

"Smooth it against the roof of your mouth. Now you're going to kind of move it over to behind your lips and poke your tongue through."

The look on Ororo's face was a mix of incredulity, disgust, and… humor. The weird feeling of the putty stuff in her mouth was matched only by the weird of someone telling her what to do with her mouth.

"Just trust me. You push the gum out with your tongue and then blow into it."

Ororo tried.

The gum didn't turn into a pink bubble like Scott's had. She made a rude sound and the gum went flying into the grass.

They both laughed.

"You suck at being American," he said.

"You suck at being cool."

"I'm not cool."

"I'm not American."

It was evening. The humidity hadn't been nearly so bad in the past few weeks. Ororo squirmed her toes in the grass. She was actually an American in terms of citizenship now, and she supposed she would grow into feeling more like she belonged in the country once she felt like she belonged in this century. These days, she wouldn't even recognize Cairo.

Scott laughed and blew a gum bubble.

"That's not the most important skill a person can have," Ororo said.

The bubble popped and Scott did that weird pulling-gum-back-into-your-mouth thing.

"I signed myself up for an email address," he said. "And I can type 35 words a minute."

"And bubblegum."

"And bubblegum."

One thing Ororo liked about this time period was that girls wore pants all the time now. Her shorts were comfortable. And the bras! The embarrassment of telling Professor Xavier she needed to buy top-half underwear was ameliorated by the fact that they were actually pretty comfortable.

"Don't be mad, but I miss Chris," she said.

He was Scott's father, but he had been good to Ororo. She wanted to learn all the things he knew how to do, how to fly a spaceship and fight dirty and drink a full rotgut pint in one long gulp. (He imparted wisdom on only two of the three.) Mostly, though, he just talked to her. He was sort of like a friend, and she missed that.

Scott nodded. "That's okay."

They sat in silence for a while.

Then Scott murmured, "I miss him too. Chris… isn't a bad man. You know he barely left your side after that Rer'yrti blood virus. Which was scary for me too, by the way."

"And you didn't have to lay under those ice blankets," Ororo said, pushing her toes into the grass.

It had been a miserable fever, and the virus made her joints ache. And her eyes. Ororo swallowed, realizing it was a lot easier to focus on the physical feelings instead of the emotional ones. She was the one pulling Scott to "explore" Rer'yrt. He wanted to wait in the ship like Chris told them to.

"I, um—was scared, too. More than anything, I wanted Ruth there to hold my hand. But you were a pretty close second."

Scott didn't look at her, but he took her hand.

Ororo's breath caught in her throat. She didn't like talking about her feelings, but she liked the way she felt now—like she had someone who loved her, and she was still tough enough to electrocute someone by the tongue if they threatened her family.

"So what's up with you and Jean?"

"Turns out I'm not allowed to have sex until my seventeenth birthday."

Ororo bit her lip. Was Jean so mad at Scott she'd laid down that rule? That was… amusingly creative.

"New York State sets an age limit."

"Hang on, New York State controls your junk?"

"Not funny."

"It's kind of funny."

"It's not."

"Scott, New York State has a voodoo junk doll."

"Shut up! And it has a voodoo… parts doll for you too!"

"Parts?"

"Shut up."

" _Parts?_ "

Scott tried to pull away, but Ororo squeezed his hand.

"You're my brother and I love you," Ororo said. Even though he was definitely not ready for what Jean had been willing to do with him.

After a moment, she started to giggle.

"It's a little bit funny, Scott."

"No it's not!" he said, but she heard him chuckling, too.

"Just imagine what sort of people work in New York State Department of Foster Kids' Voodoo Parts."

She felt how hard he was trying not to laugh.

"It has its own card catalog, and it's a just a room filled with drawers. You have to fill in a requisition form when you turn eighteen, otherwise they keep your voodoo part forever."

"This is stupid."

"They have like five thousand voodoo parts dolls. Of course, the room is kind of a mess since half the drawers start bleeding every month."

"That's disgusting!" Scott cried, but he was laughing too hard for it to have much impact. He was laughing too hard to hear, so Ororo stopped her story there. It was funny enough.

Department of Foster Kids' Voodoo Parts.

Heh.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Jean was in her bedroom, carefully re-folding her shirts. Her laptop was open on the desk, playing her most embarrassing Pandora station. She had pulled her suitcase out from beneath her bed and had it open on the floor.

She had been expecting Professor Xavier would come talk to her at some point, so the knock at the door didn't surprise her. He had offered that morning, but she said she needed more time to think.

Jean took a deep breath, dried her eyes, and stopped the music. He probably wouldn't question her choice. Just in case, she had her reasons laid out. As she went to open the door, she rehearsed them one more time.

"—oh! You're—um, sorry, you're not who I expected," she explained.

Ruth nodded. "I can see that."

She wasn't really what Jean expected. She was much older than Jean thought she would be, for someone Ororo and Scott called "mom"—she looked more like their grandma. Besides not knowing what to make of her, though, Jean thought she liked Ruth.

"You are leaving?" Ruth asked.

"Oh…" Jean shook her head. "Yeah, it's for the best if I do."

"Do you want to leave?"

Jean thought for a moment. She had reached that conclusion, but… "It's for the best."

"For who?"

Again Jean had to think about it for a moment. For who? For… for… for everyone!

She couldn't answer, just—much to her chagrin—started to cry.

She wasn't sure what she had expected from Ororo and Scott's mom, but it wasn't what happened. Ruth walked her to the bed and sat next to her, then rubbed her back until she had calmed down.

The problem was that once you started crying, the words started coming when the tears stopped.

"I just, I really liked it here and I thought we were all friends and now Scott and Ororo will barely talk to me, and I know they're friends from before and I can't compete with that, I wasn't trying to, I just—I mean it's not that unreasonable to want to matter, and… oh my god, I was on top of him!"

Jean buried her face in her hands. She was _on top of him._ She hadn't been hurt physically. Emotionally, though… the guy she nearly lost her virginity to had run out of the room. That was tough.

When she was finished crying and finished wanting to melt into a puddle of humiliation, Jean wiped her face, sniffled, and said, "Thanks for sitting with me."

"Of course."

"You know, I was never like super cool, but I had friends. I thought Scott and Ororo were my friends, but—they're the cool kids here. They belong in a way I don't. Can't."

"You can if this is what you want," Ruth said. "Scott humiliated you. I understand this. Not on purpose, I think, but he did."

Jean wanted to say that no, he hadn't—but he sort of had. She had just felt so, so small. She had been _naked_ —literally naked—that really hadn't helped.

"What should I do?" Jean asked.

"Decide what you want," Ruth said.

It was a tall order. Did she want to be here? To be Ororo's friend? Scott's girlfriend? Did she even want to be a mutant?

Being a mutant hadn't seemed so important lately. Even though her life at the mansion included more use of her powers, more acceptance of them and even talking about what she was—she wasn't a telekinetic. She was Jean.

Further definition required.

"And then make it happen."

 


	44. Who did what wrong now?

The morning after her talk with Ruth, Jean stood in the shower for ages, letting the hot water run over her. She had compromised. Half her clothes were still in her suitcase, but the suitcase was under her bed again. She needed to do what Ruth said, decide what she wanted and go after it.

Just as soon as she finished feeling warm and safe and delightful in the shower.

She toweled off, combed and braided her hair, and debated the appropriateness of the dress she wanted to wear. On the one hand, it was cute and she liked feeling cute. On the other hand, she only kind of wanted Scott turned on—because she wanted a rational conversation with him, but she also kind of wanted to get back at him.

She decided on the dress with a sweater over it. It was when she caught herself debating how many buttons to leave undone that she realized she was stalling.

Jean still wasn't sure what she wanted, but she knew she _didn't_ want to leave things unresolved with Scott, whatever happened. At least she knew what was happening there. Scott would be a foothill. Making nice with Ororo… that would be a mountain. Jean didn't think it was normal to be that mad at your brother's girlfriend, so she was not sure where to start.

Scott wasn't in his room or the kitchen. She had more luck on her third try. Scott was in the library.

"What are you working on?" Jean asked. "Wait!" seeing the look on his face, "don't—just don't. Can we talk?"

Scott hesitated. Then he nodded, capped his pen, and set aside his notebook.

"English 101," he said.

Scott and Ororo had earned their GEDs, making them now genuine college students. Jean was frustrated about that. She was enrolled in high school, which meant that if she stayed here she would take a semester off. Jean could handle that. A semester off was worth it—if she could make this work and find a place at mutant school. Enrollment deadlines for the community college had already passed.

"Is it, um… challenging?"

"Yes," Scott said, "a little, but Professor Xavier has taught me a lot about literary analysis."

"What are you reading?"

"Hamlet. I'm looking forward to next month. We're reading The Three Musketeers. Jean, I'm sorry for, um—that morning. I know I hurt your feelings."

"Hurt my feelings?"

Was that really all he saw, that he was wrong because he had hurt her feelings? He had, but when he said that, she felt like he was making it her problem. Like he was sorry she misinterpreted.

"Jean—"

"Scott."

Jean hadn't said that. Professor Xavier had. Neither of them had heard him arrive, but he was in the doorway now, with the sort of expression that usually prompted a _who died?_ Since this time it was more _who did what wrong now,_ Jean didn't even risk thinking the joke too loudly.

"I need to speak with you. Jean, I'm afraid it's a private matter."

Since it was also clearly an urgent one, she nodded. "Of course, I'll give you some space," she said. She offered Scott a quick smile before leaving the room.

* * *

 

Scott, meanwhile, didn't know exactly what this was about. Things had been a bit tumultuous lately, he knew that—but Professor Xavier seemed too solemn now to be addressing that awkwardness. Besides, he seemed to trust Scott a little more these days. It used to be that any time Scott had a conflict with someone he landed in Professor Xavier's office to sort it out. Scott was a little better at managing these things now, a little less a kid, and he was proud of the fact that Professor Xavier seemed to agree.

Granted there was yesterday, but that was… complicated.

"I spoke to Alex this morning. His wife passed away on Tuesday."

"What—no, that's not possible," Scott said. "She was getting better, the chemo was working. She was getting better!"

"It was an accident," Professor Xavier said, and it struck Scott that this was possibly the cruelest thing he had ever, for a woman recovering from years of struggle against cancer to die in an _accident_. "She fell in the bath. When people get older…"

Scott didn't hear anything past that. It wasn't possible. How could someone—but then, if anyone understood a sudden absence, it was a Summers. He hadn't even been able to meet her in person!

And poor Alex. He had lost so much. It wasn't fair. Their mother. Darwin. Sean. Their father. His brother. The list just kept growing.

"I should be there. I have to go see him."

"Scott, you can't."

"I know I'll miss class, but this is more important."

Alex needed him. Scott wasn't sure precisely why—Alex was an adult who didn't need his baby brother clearing the booze out of his room and dragging him out of bars. He was probably grown up and mature, and what could Scott even do…

But he needed to be there.

Professor Xavier shook his head. "If it were only a matter of missed classes, I wouldn't stop you. I know how important Alex is to you, but you know the rules. Legally, you and Alex aren't related." How could they be? "And even if you were, he's in Massachusetts. You need pre-approval from your social worker to leave the state. I'm sorry."

Scott understood the facts. He understood that there was no legal reason for him to attend the funeral of a seventy-something woman he had never met; he understood that the law said he and Alex were strangers; he understood that it was important to follow the rules. He had heard the lecture enough times to know: just because Professor Xavier could influence someone with his telepathy didn't mean the rules didn't apply. It was important to behave impeccably, like Hank said. They were mutants, so the rules applied even more.

Logic did nothing to dent his resolve.

A few months ago, Ororo found train and bus schedules, found that it wouldn't be that hard to get to Massachusetts. At the time, Scott rejected the notion. He knew she would suggest sneaking out now and damn the consequences—and she would be right. No consequence stopped Scott wanting to go.

He look at the books on the table. He had read Hamlet before.

"Professor…"

Scott swallowed and turned back to Professor Xavier.

"Professor, I know you said we can't use our mutations to flout the law. Even when I disagree with the law, I've been good. I wait for approval to get a haircut. I won't touch Jean until we're both old enough. You cannot imagine how much I hate it, that they own me just like Milbury owned me, but I have been good and I will be good. I'll go to school and my grades will be decent, anything, everything I am meant to do, I'll do it, I swear. Just give me this. There are no laws for situations like mine and Alex's. He is my brother, whether the law says so or not. No one would even need to know; I'll take the bus there, I'll get myself to the station, you won't be involved. You can say I ran away. But I won't. I won't go without your permission, but, Professor, please. Don't make me stay."

Professor Xavier had never hidden when something upset him. His was understated but direct, and right now, Scott knew they were both suffering for this. He wasn't terribly sorry for it. Sometimes having a power like Professor Xavier's, when you had a problem caused by mutation—or experimentation based on mutation…

He sighed and shook his head. "You're not taking the bus. I'll call Hank."

Scott nodded, although it made him only moderately less concerned. Hank had a job, a life, he couldn't just up and leave for a few days.

"Will you call him today?"

In some ways, Scott did not like the 21st century. He did not like the technology everywhere and how disconnected it made people seem. Suddenly he found the 21st century just fine when Professor Xavier took out his phone and began to dial.

"And we'll talk about Milbury at another time."

Fine. He had let that slip, but fine if it got him to Alex.

He listened as Professor Xavier explained the situation, a mix of tactful and direct. Scott began to chew his thumbnail, caught himself and pulled his hand away. The conversation had begun with formalities, albeit only a few moments, and that had been enough to wind him in knots.

So he all but held his breath as Professor Xavier asked, "Can you take Scott to Massachusetts? He needs to be there for Alex… yes, tonight, if you can… all right. Thank you."

Professor Xavier hung up and turned to Scott. "You're leaving this afternoon, you need to pack. No more than a week, all right?"

Scott nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. And Scott—Hank was always going to say yes."

"He has his job and everything. That's all."

"I don't think you realize how much you did for Hank. Back in 1963, his appearance made him so uncomfortable, he was ready to hide away from the world. Even before that, he was very serious, awkward. You saw him for who he was. You may have been his first real friend, Scott. I don't think there's anything Hank wouldn't do if you needed it."

 


	45. The Last Letter

Dear Charles,

This will be the last letter. From now on, I do not have to pretend not to feel what I feel. From now on I give myself permission to want and to hurt.

I realized that everything I feel I feel wrong about. I feel wrong being angry and it makes me angrier. I feel wrong being afraid and that… that makes me angry again.

I was afraid to say how I felt about Jean and now I may never tell anyone else. I need to walk away from that one. Maybe she never would have felt the same about me, I don't know that, but I never said anything.

Before he left, Scott showed me Massachusetts on a map. If you gave me enough time, I could walk there. The last time we were separated I was locked in a closet and got so scared I passed out. This time, I know Scott will be home soon, but it still reminds me:

I never could see Jean as a sister, but Scott will always be my brother.

So this is the strange thing, because you never really seemed like my dad. You were Scott's, but not mine. It's not that you didn't take care of me, you did, and you made sure I was educated and as ready for the world as I could be; I know you did all that for me. It just felt like you were doing it because it was right, not because it was me.

You did some stuff. You read to me. You took care of me. But you didn't love me.

I think in fairness I didn't want you to, but it still hurt.

Love, Ororo


	46. Massachusetts

That afternoon, Scott spent a while with Ruth. She was leaving the next day—otherwise, she said, she would have driven him to Massachusetts herself. He reasoned it was nothing to worry about. He knew that… but maybe it would be good for Ororo not to have to compete with him for attention.

"We can talk," she promised. "At least we can Skype, and I will be back when I can."

Scott nodded, pretending his eyes weren't damp behind his glasses.

Ruth hugged him. He was taller than her now, though he wasn't sure if that was exactly new or just that he had learned not to slouch.

"I love you and I am proud of you."

"I love you, too."

He didn't know how long he would be gone—maybe a few days, probably closer to a week. Although it was only a short trip and he didn't question his reasons for going, he felt a flutter of nerves at the prospect of being away. He had never done this before, left home, not for an overnight trip. The last time he tried that, he was six. And look how it turned out!

But Alex wanted him there, so Scott packed his clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a few library books (just in case he had a spare moment). Hank wasn't due until three, but Scott had his bag packed and set by the front door at two. After he spent twenty minutes pacing, Ruth dragged Scott outside for krav maga. Although she was slower and not quite as strong as she had once been, she was nonetheless a formidable enemy.

This was a general impediment to Jean's concentration, as well.

By 3:07, Scott was perched on the edge of the couch, alternately chewing his nails and wringing his hands to keep from chewing his nail. Jean came and sat next to him after a few minutes.

"Hey—um, I know I owe you a conversation."

Jean shook her head. "It's not important right now," she said.

"I know what I did was—I was a jerk."

"You were, but right now your brother needs you. That comes first."

"Okay."

His hand rose nearly to his mouth, then shifted quickly away. Jean reached over and squeezed his fingers gently. "He'll be here, Scott."

Scott nodded.

"What's Alex like?"

"He's um… you know, I don't think I know anymore. But before, he was… Alex always felt like had to protect himself. He acted tough but really he was in a lot of pain. He had a great sense of humor, though. Filthy. I was a bit, uh, bashful, and Alex was always needling me."

"I guess that's what big brothers are for."

_He's not my big brother._

Scott didn't say it. To some people, to a lot of people, maybe to everyone except him, Alex was indisputably his big brother. Scott would trust him for advice on things, ask him about whatever was too embarrassing to talk to someone else about, but his instinct to protect Alex had not diminished. That was what big brothers did, looked out for you, even when they were fifty years younger.

When Hank finally arrived, Scott expected he would want to come in and talk to Professor Xavier a bit. He was relieved to learn otherwise.

"I'm sure Scott's eager to go," Hank reasoned.

"I appreciate this, Hank," Professor Xavier said.

There was an entire conversation shared between them without being spoken.

Scott hugged Ruth again and wanted to hang onto her forever, but he couldn't. That was painfully clear given recent events.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too. Go take care of your brother."

Before they left, Professor Xavier said to Hank, "Remember, we don't have permission for Scott to leave the state."

Scott looked away. He wasn't going to lose this chance, was he?

But Hank said, "I understand."

"I know you'll look after him."

A faint blush tinged Scott's cheeks at the comment. He said nothing, understanding why Professor Xavier said it—but he wasn't a kid!

"Scott does have a learner's permit and Massachusetts recognizes out-of-state permits. It's okay if he wants to drive but he doesn't have much experience driving at night and we haven't tried freeway driving yet…"

Scott was squirming by this point.

"…and since your serum, his metabolism has changed—"

"Professor!"

Hank rested a hand on Scott's shoulder. "I'll take good care of him, Charles."

Scott said good-bye, something that tied a knot in his stomach. He grabbed his bag and headed out, knowing that if he didn't leave now, he might lose the chance by getting cold feet.

He tossed his bag in the backseat and settled in the passenger seat.

"Are you all right?"

"Sure," Scott said.

Hank started the car. As they drove away, Scott gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead. He didn't want to look back.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I just—the last time I left didn't go so well and Ororo's been having a hard time."

"This won't be like last time."

"I know. But—Ruth's going back to Israel. It's going to be hard for Ororo. I have to go for Alex but…"

"She'll understand, Scott."

Scott nodded.

"How are your classes?"

They talked about school for a while. Scott asked about Hank's research and tried to understand it, which turned the drive into an impromptu science lesson. Once Hank got on that subject, he could talk for hours.

Scott's science knowledge was lacking. He hadn't received much of an education in Omaha, and what he did receive was a conservative education in the 1950s. Science was only encouraged to beat the Soviets into space. So he had quite a bit to learn and enjoyed having Hank teach him about as much as Hank enjoyed talking about it.

They drove up through Connecticut. Occasionally someone in a passing car would stare, but it didn't seem to bother Hank, even the kids gawking through windows. Scott couldn't help remembering before, the first time Hank left the mansion in over a year. Alex was out after Sean died, drinking too much, and Hank only drove Scott into town because he knew otherwise Scott would walk despite it being the middle of the night.

Hank was different now. He didn't mind if people saw him, and Scott could only hope to have that kind of confidence one day.

He didn't want to stop unless they absolutely had to, so when his stomach started growling at him they compromised on eating fast food in the car.

"Don't tell Charles I fed you this," Hank added.

Scott nodded, too busy devouring a burger to talk. The serum really had done a number on his metabolism.

Once the food was eaten, while Scott gathered up all the wrappers and napkins, he asked, "Can I ask you about something—if I ask you about this, can it stay between us?"

Hank considered before asking, "Do you know what a mandated reporter is?"

Scott shook his head.

"It means someone who has a legal obligation to report abuse. Teachers, for example, if they believe a student is in danger."

He understood what Hank was telling him: if it was serious, he would tell Professor Xavier.

"If it's about a girl?"

"You can talk to me about that."

"And about… before. And Mr. Milbury."

Hank gave him a concerned look.

"Do you remember when I used to have nightmares?"

"Yes, I remember that."

"Sometimes Jean has our nightmares, mine and Ororo's. With her telepathy, she—and it's not her fault. I know Ororo's told her that some of the nightmares are hers, but I haven't. When she has my nightmares, she thinks they're Ororo's. But what I don't get, Jean's smart. Why hasn't she figured it out? Do I seem like—are my memories like a girl's?"

"As far as I know, there's nothing that happened to you that was specific to being a boy or a girl," Hank reasoned.

That much was true. Scott didn't think most people could understand what his childhood had been like and that was difficult. He used to wake up screaming on the Starjammer, too, but thinking about that just wrenched his heart—because it meant remembering Chris and knowing he might never see him again, and the way Ororo would be there to push Chris away. And how he had left her behind now.

The problem with trying to move on was that you always had to be looking back with one eye. It meant trying to understand how normal people thought and behaved, and that meant truly and deeply accepting that most people around him had the sort of life he only dreamed about.

"But," Hank continued, "if she knows she shares Ororo's dreams, it seems only logical that she would conclude the foreign memories are Ororo's. Just as it seems logical to conclude that you have not told her about the orphanage."

Scott shook his head. How could he? He didn't want to be that boy anymore. Jean was a part of his life now; she didn't need to know what he had been then.

"She doesn't need to know."

"Okay." From the way Hank said it, he did not mean okay at all.

They didn't talk about it for the rest of the drive. It wasn't the most important thing right now and Scott did not want to say anything more about the orphanage. He felt himself go red as he realized he still had the nightmares and would be sharing a motel room with Hank—but it wasn't news to Hank, was it.

When they crossed into Massachusetts, Scott asked, "Is there anything I need to know? I haven't met Daisy and I've only talked to Annie a couple of times, and really only to say hi."

Hank considered, then shook his head. "I don't know what the situation will be. Death affects everyone differently."

They had a few more hours to drive. When they turned off the highway, they drove into the suburbs. It looked like something off TV, so calm and peaceful. There were a few people out, a few kids playing on one of the lawns despite it being after dark now. The streetlights were on and through a few windows Scott caught glimpses of families.

Hank parked in front of a two-story clapboard house. A few lights were on but the curtains were all drawn. The lawn was mostly clear, with a few leaves scattered across it.

"This is Alex's house?"

Hank nodded. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

At first, no one answered when they knocked on the door.

The second time Hank knocked, someone called, "Please go away! We appreciate it, just—just please go away!"

"Daisy, it's Hank."

Silence.

Then she opened the door. "Thanks for coming, Uncle Hank," Daisy said, giving him an exhausted but fond hug.

"Of course."

Daisy stepped back to wave them inside.

"This is Scott," Hank explained.

"It's nice to meet you," he said, "though I'm sorry it had to be under these circumstances."

Daisy looked about how Scott thought a person would a few days after losing their mother. Her eyes were off-color and her nose raw from crying. Her hair hadn't been brushed for a while and was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wore a pair of dirty pajamas.

"Sure," she said, like she hadn't heard him. Scott didn't think much of that. Like he said—under the circumstances. "You missed the funeral."

Scott, Hank, and Alex had all learned to cope with trauma from the same person, so it should have come as no surprise that Hank suggested, "Why don't I make us some tea? Scott was hoping to see your father, is he around?"

"Dad's in the garage, but he doesn't want to be disturbed."

"I don't think he'll mind," Hank said.

Daisy gave directions—left, door at the end of the hall. As he started towards it, Scott caught a glimpse of Annie at the top of the stairs, looking angry and grim, her hair puffing out the beanie she wore. She gave him a glare and ran off. A door slammed a moment later.

Scott continued down the hall. The house hurt. People had been here and there was a sense of messiness and of heaviness. The whole house was grief.

He knocked on the garage door.

"Not now," Alex said.

Scott opened the door anyway.

From the looks of it, this garage had seen a lot of tinkering. There was a table in the corner with several parts Scott could almost identify, and Alex sat there, looking… looking old. Older than he had seemed before, and more crushed.

He turned, annoyed. "Annie—"

He stopped when he saw who it was.

Scott closed the door behind him. This was the sort of place he and Alex felt at home, a place that smelled of grease and motor oil.

"Hank's with Daisy," he said. "Annie's upstairs. Just you and me."

Alex nodded. "Okay."

It wasn't even the first time Scott had seen this, what becoming a widower did to a human being. And it wasn't how he had envisioned a reunion with his bother, feeling the frailness in him while Alex sobbed into shirt. But then, Scott knew better than anyone that life takes unexpected turns.


	47. Bit by Bit

When Annie woke up, the house smelled like pancakes. She smiled. Since her grandma died, her mom and grandpa were like zombies. She knew they were in mourning. It was just scary, a little bit, because she felt like she had lost everyone in her world. And because she didn't know what she was supposed to do. And because she knew she couldn't help.

So she wasn't happy because of the pancakes; she was happy because pancakes meant someone was okay, awake and focused on a task. She pulled on her beanie without brushing her hair. She brushed once or twice a week now. It didn't matter; it was all under the hat.

Still in her pajamas, she padded downstairs. It was probably Grandpa who was okay, and that was good, because if he was okay, Mom would be okay. She would have him to look out for her. He would know what to do.

She paused in the doorway.

Shit.

Neither her mom nor her grandpa had made pancakes. Grandpa was at the table, at least, and the whole place was less of a mess now. Guy-Who's-Not-Really-Her-Uncle Hank and Guy-Who-Apparently-Was-Her-Real-Uncle Scott were already there, Not-Uncle Hank at the table and Apparently-Uncle Scott cooking pancakes in the kitchen.

"Annie," her grandpa said.

"Hey Grandpa."

There was no point saying anything—like 'good morning' or 'how are you'. It would be a while before mornings were good, or anyone was okay. Mourning mornings sucked.

So instead she said, "I want to eat in my room."

Her grandpa looked ready to object, but Apparently-Uncle Scott said, "It's okay, Alex."

Annie hated him for taking her side and for telling her grandpa what to do.

For the rest of the day, she tried to avoid him. Unfortunately both he and the furball stayed around, so Annie retreated to her room to listen to music. She rolled a joint and passed it from hand to hand, not smoking it, just having it. Thinking about it.

She only left when she absolutely had to use the bathroom.

It was a weird day. Annie felt herself constantly on the brink of tears, gritting her teeth to keep from dissolving. There weren't words for how much she loved her grandma. None of them had been able to speak at the funeral, nor really since.

Later, when they were finally gone, she crept downstairs for microwaved leftovers of whatever casserole of the neighbors' they had endured for dinner. It was tuna-noodle and she hated tuna, so she made a peanut butter sandwich instead. Then she went back upstairs to toss and turn.

The second day, Annie heard Apparently-Uncle Scott's footsteps in the hallway and thought he was going to talk to her. She glared at the door, willing it to stay shut. She didn't want to talk to this stranger.

So why did she feel so damn rejected when he knocked on her mom's bedroom door instead?

She heard their voices through the wall.

"…clean up in here… might make you feel better to…"

Annie frowned. It was probably not right to eavesdrop, but since she couldn't not hear, she wanted to at least hear it properly. There was a cup of water on her desk. She looked around for somewhere to drain out the last bit and finally pulled a pad from her backpack, opened it out, and spilled the water into it. The pad did its job, and Annie pressed the now-empty glass to the wall to listen.

"…a little weird for me," her mom was saying. "You're fifteen."

"Sixteen. It was my birthday last weekend."

Grandma died on Friday.

"Well… okay, but that doesn't make it much less weird."

"I used to do this for your dad when he was your age, too. He was… less understanding. Would you mind grabbing some clean sheets?"

Annie pulled her ear away from the glass and listened to her mom's footsteps, then the squeaky hinges of the linen closet.

"Alex said you were an artist?"

"Yes. Painting, mostly. Between what I made on commissions and part-time as an art teacher, I kept it together until the recession hit. Then—well, it doesn't go all at once. When things fall apart, sometimes it happens bit by bit. We had to move back in with my mom and dad."

"Daisy, would you, if you can, would you do something for me? I never had the chance to meet your mother in person. Can you tell me about her?"

Annie scowled. She wanted to storm into the next room and give him a kick in the teeth for saying that—how dare he, really! Mom wasn't ready to talk about Grandma yet, and who was this jerk to push her?

But after a while, her mom said, "She was kind. Patient. My mom… she met my dad in Vietnam. She never shied away from a challenge, she just made everything look so easy. Like it was never a challenge in the first place. She was tough to live up to."

Annie put the glass back on her desk and threw herself onto her bed. She stuffed a corner of her pillow into her mouth. Desperate, strangled sobs escaped around it as she tried not to cry.

It felt like hours before she stumbled to the bathroom to wash her face. Her throat and eyes were sore.

She changed into jeans and a mostly-clean shirt, tied on her sneakers, and headed downstairs. Her mom and grandpa were in the den with Hank and Scott.

"I'm gonna go for a walk."

Her mom sighed. "You know I don't like you going out on your own."

"Since when?"

They knew since when, since Grandpa told her that Annie smoked weed, like she was the first person in the world to smoke it.

"Well maybe I need to get some stuff."

"Annie—"

"I can go with her," Apparently-Uncle Scott offered. "If that's all right with you," he added to Daisy.

Annie scowled at him. She had avoided him since he arrived. She left the room when he and her grandpa Skyped. Didn't he get that?

"That's okay," Daisy said. "Annie?"

If it meant getting out of the house… "Fine."

"Grab a sweater, please."

"I don't need one."

"Annie."

"I said I don't need one!"

But there was no way out of this house without a stupid sweater, so Annie tied a hoodie around her waist and went out. She was aware of Apparently-Uncle Scott walking next to her, but he had the good sense not to say anything. Eventually she did start to feel less annoyed. It was easier though, feeling annoyed. Better than feeling the rawness in her throat or the chill on her arms because she really did need that sweater.

"Hey, what's that?"

"What's what?"

"That." Apparently-Uncle Scott pointed.

Annie laughed. "You mean Starbucks?"

"Yes, I see the signs all over the place."

"You've never heard of Starbucks."

He shook his head.

She rolled her eyes, but he kept that serious look on his face, and after a while her expression faltered. Was he—serious? Oh, wow, he was. He didn't know Starbucks!

"C'mon. You got any cash? You can't not know Starbucks."

They both ordered hot chocolates and sat at a table by the window, enjoying the beautiful view of a parking lot. There was a market here, too, a couple of take-out places, a PetCo, a Super Cuts. Welcome to suburbia.

"So you don't mind babysitting me? Seriously?" Annie asked. She stuck a coffee stirrer into the fluff of whipped cream on her drink and ate it bit by bit.

Scott shook his head. "Why should I mind?"

"For one, I super obviously don't want you here."

"That's true."

"So what grade are you in, anyway?"

"I take classes at the community college, the one your grandpa went to."

"Really?"

"Yes. But I'm mostly studying English and he was always more a science guy. How about you, what grade are you in? Shouldn't you be at school?"

Annie shrugged. With no one around to make her go, and everything such a mess, she hadn't been to school in a week. She was supposed to go back, but… but.

"That's okay."

"Says who?"

"Says me. I think people learn when they're ready. My sister didn't learn to read until she was about your age."

"Is she, like, dyslexic?" Annie asked, feeling sympathy for how hard that would have been. It was a nice change to the pain and self-pity she had mostly felt the past week.

"No, she was a homeless pickpocket for most of her childhood. She didn't learn to read until she was in an orphanage. She still doesn't love reading, but she's one of the smartest people I know."

Annie didn't know what to say to that. His sister was Oliver Twist in girl form. Olivia Twist… or maybe that was the twist.

"Is she my aunt?"

"I guess she would be. She's my foster-sister."

"Your parents died, right?"

Apparently-Uncle Scott hesitated. So the truth was just as complicated as her grandpa had claimed! Annie was fascinated.

He leaned nearer and spoke softer as he told this story:

"When I… about a year ago, my biological father—accidentally—took me and my sister, Ororo. He took us away from our foster parents and we had no idea if we would ever see them again. Even though my father did his best, even though he took care of us, I missed my real parents every day. It was like having a physical pain inside me, not like hurting, but like I had grown a new organ and that organ was pain.

"When you hurt like that, it's hard to do anything. It's hard to get out of bed in the morning or even go to bed at night. I would sit down in the middle of the floor and just… I didn't want to get in bed. I don't know why. I would just sit there and time melted around me. After a while it stopped being about my foster-parents. It was just overwhelming pain.

"I had to be okay because Ororo needed me to but when she was out of the room, I felt like I had stopped being me. One day she found me sitting on the floor and she sat and talked to me about… about our dad. He wouldn't want me in this much pain. It would break his heart."

As he spoke, Annie had alternately watched him and licked shards of whipped cream off her coffee stirrer. She understood about overwhelming pain. She lived with it, inside her and outside her, what her mom and grandpa carried.

"What she made me realize was that I had to remember how much my dad loved me."

"Why?" Annie wondered. "You were never going to see him again."

Scott shook his head. "That wasn't important. The people who love you make you who you are. You just have to learn to be as strong for yourself as you are for them."

"Why?"

"Because you can't let pain decide who you are."

Annie didn't know what to say to that, so they sat in silence for a while. She wondered if her grandpa had really told the truth, if his father really was a space pirate. Wouldn't it make more sense that his dad was some weird scientist? Maybe Scott had just been frozen for fifty years.

But then she thought about her grandpa and about Uncle Scott and decided it didn't matter.

"So this pain organ, where was it?" she asked.

Matter-of-factly, he replied, "I believe the most apt metaphor is to tell you it was a dark shell around my heart."

Annie rolled her eyes, but it was actually kind of meaningful. She just didn't know how to admit that.

"Come on," Annie said. Both their drink cups were empty. She tossed them out and started away from the Starbucks.

"Home's that way."

"We're going somewhere else."

"Okay."

"Aren't you going to ask where we're going?"

"Where are we going?"

"To visit our graves."


	48. Each Small Step

After Scott and Hank went to Massachusetts, and Ruth left the following day, Ororo felt so utterly alone. She wasn't sure what to do with that feeling, but she knew she wanted things to change. She needed to not pretend she didn't care like she usually did.

Even Ororo wasn't sure what that meant.

There was something under her mattress. She felt it every night when she went to sleep, a reminder of something she started and backed down from finishing. Now she took it out and headed for Professor Xavier's office.

She let herself in, evaluated his mood for a moment, then strode over and took a seat opposite him at the desk.

"Good morning, Ororo."

"Hi."

She had felt very resolved, coming in here. Now she wasn't sure what she wanted to say. It was one thing to decide in broad strokes, but what was each small step?

"What do you have there?"

She instinctively pulled it closer.

She looked at him, really looked. He was different from how she remembered. There were probably photos. Ororo had never kept photos, but she wished she had one now. His eyes were the least different. She recognized the eyes. His bones were not so changed, the line of his jaw was basically what it had been, although from the looks of it someone had broken his nose a while back.

He didn't move like he used to, she thought. There was a different sort of pride in the way he held himself. Older people always moved slower and it wasn't that she resented him for getting old. She just wished he wasn't different.

"What are you looking for?"

"You."

"Ah."

He said it like that made sense, like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Ororo had always liked that about Charles. More than almost anyone she had ever met (on this planet, anyway), he didn't mind that some people were different.

"Why do you like Scott more than me?"

That surprised him.

"I don't."

"Yes, you do. You always did. So what is it? Because he was here first or because he's a boy or—or what?"

The old Charles Xavier—the young Charles Xavier—would have sighed. He would have bitten back frustration with her before he answered. This Charles Xavier thought about it, then told her,

"I won't agree that I care more for Scott than for you, but I care differently. You have always been strong, Ororo. When Scott arrived, he was lost. He needed a family, guidance—but you always preferred to find your own way. I saw myself as a facilitator to a journey you were already on."

Ororo wasn't sure what to say to that. It was true that she valued strength, especially when she first arrived here. Sometimes she had looked at Scott as a failure back then, because he was weak. He was older than she was, bigger, but not stronger.

Since then she had come around to a different way of looking at things. She understood that Scott hadn't been a failure, and she didn't see him that way anymore. Most important, she recognized that the neediness she had consistently derided was partly an openness that let people come close.

"If I had been more prepared, I would have worked harder to help you feel like a member of the family. I regret that I failed to do that for you," Professor Xavier said, his tone suggesting he had felt this way for some time. He thought about her, she realized, even when she was gone.

It was what Scott would have said and it was the truth, so Ororo said, "I didn't want to be." She didn't want to, though. The words hurt, so she wanted to say that yes, it was Charles's fault.

"And I should not have allowed a thirteen-year-old to make that choice for herself," he said.

Ororo shrugged. "I guess."

She couldn't argue with that—in all her fifteen-year-old wisdom, she couldn't. She hadn't known how to be part of a family. Why hadn't it been his job to teach her?

The simple truth was that Scott got a family because he wanted one. Ororo got a peripheral role in that family, because it was all she would accept. She didn't like it, but it was in the past now. And Professor Xavier acknowledged that it had been unfair, which helped her breathe a little easier.

"You and Scott lost your parents at about the same age. Scott was taught to obey, to please whoever held the most power. You told me about the man who looked after you, Achmed. How he taught you to sneak and steal."

She nodded. There was nowhere in any world that Ororo had heard of stealing as a virtue. It was always something lowly and vile, yet she was not without pride at the mention. She had been a thief, yes. A clever, nimble-fingered thief who, above all else, _survived_.

"You were taught to be self-reliant from a very young age, the same age at which Scott was taught to be dependent. That required him to reach out in a way that does not come naturally do you, in the same way he has needed to learn the certainty and self-respect you have. Ororo, you are a remarkable young woman. You are clever and confident, and I believe Achmed would be proud of you. As would your birth parents."

No one had ever told Ororo that. She never mentioned her birth parents. When anyone else tried, she would shrug it off. She did not remember them, so why should they matter? Why should she care? But she did care, and she needed a moment to hold back tears.

Then, abruptly, she changed the subject:

"Who broke your nose?"

"It was a long time ago," he said, "and it was Erik."

Ororo nodded.

She didn't know all of what had gone on since she and Scott left, but it seemed Charles had not been here the whole time. Good—she didn't know what to imagine, but she liked that it was more than just sitting around.

"Scott was fifteen when you got him, right?"

"He was indeed."

Ororo shrugged, hoping he would understand without her needing to spell it out. Scott was fifteen, and that hadn't been too old to have a family. Like she was fifteen now.

"Is that what you want?"

"I think so. I don't know."

"What were you upset about the other day?"

She looked away, out the window. It was a beautiful day, clear and cool, and the humidity of the summer seemed like it just might be finished with them. Making a sunny day like that was tougher than it looked. She hadn't—this one was natural—but if she had, she would have needed to calm the winds just so and keep the clouds at bay.

She looked back to Professor Xavier and said, "I thought I was in love. But I… I wasn't."

She didn't expect him to understand. That was stupid, right? Why would you be upset because you were in love?

But Professor Xavier said, "I'm so sorry, Ororo."

She shrugged. "Not a big deal, right?"

"Had you ever felt that way before?"

Once, but it was on another planet, and they both knew it couldn't last.

"No. Not like this."

"The first time you have your heart broken is not a small thing."

She wanted to say it wasn't true, her heart wasn't broken, she was _fine_ … but that was more how it felt. Like her heart was broken. Not like it was someone's fault, which was hard for her, because Ororo preferred a target she could lash out at. It wasn't Jean's fault, or Scott's.

Although if they had locked the door, or told her literally any other way, that would have been better. But it wasn't their fault they were together.

She took out the book, the one she had kept under her bed. She bought it ages back, but then things got so busy. The bookstore had to special order it and she brought it home the day they realized Jean was picking up on their bad dreams. Turned out most people weren't interested in obscure memoirs of raft-building expeditions.

Ororo offered the book to Professor Xavier.

He took it and looked it over, at first seeming not to remember—then recognition hit and he smiled. "Kon-Tiki."

She nodded.

"We were reading this when you disappeared."

"I remember."

"After all this time, I don't remember where we left off," he said. "Shall we start again from the beginning?"


	49. Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the unreliable updates lately! School just started and things are a little hectic.

ANNIE JANE SUMMERS

1941 - 2010

SCOTT DANIEL SUMMERS

1980 - 2003

The graves were nearby, with a plot beside set aside empty. After a moment, Scott realized it was for Alex. It was nice, in a way. Scott thought about their parents. Chris and Katherine had been in love. And they had been torn apart. So it was a little morbid, but it was also nice to think that Alex would have someone he loved forever—especially Alex, who had lost so much.

"They met in Vietnam," Annie said, looking down at the graves. There was a thickness in her voice like she was just a little bit choked up. "She was a nurse. My grandpa… this is so embarrassing. He got shot in his ass. He always said she… oh my god. That she lied about the infection to get another look."

Scott didn't know if that was brilliant or disturbing. A little bit of both, he decided. Annie was blistering red.

"After I was born, when there were two of us, they started calling me Little Annie. I mean, logically, she would be Big Annie, but instead everyone called her Nurse Annie."

Scott nodded.

"She made me this hat."

"Is that why you wear it all the time?"

"No."

Annie offered no further explanation and Scott had the good sense not to ask any stupid questions. Which, at the time, would have been any questions at all.

At least, he didn't ask about the hat anymore, but he asked something else.

"Who was he?"

"That's Uncle Scott. He was a firefighter. He'd wanted to be a firefighter all his life, ever since he was a little boy. One time he wore his fireman pajamas to school every day for a week. He used to hide snacks in his room. He… he was a mutant, like my grandpa. He died when I was little. Cancer."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" Annie asked. For the first time since arriving, she looked up from the graves, looked to the uncle who was only three years older than her. "Why are you sorry?"

"I just—it's just what you say."

"My uncle died because he ran into burning buildings to save people."

"I thought he had cancer."

"When buildings collapse, it releases all this shit into the air. I don't totally understand it. Does it matter?"

"No. You're right, it doesn't matter."

Annie looked back to the graves, and so did Scott.

Scott Daniel Summers.

Alex had a son, and he didn't name him after their father or Charles. He named him Scott. The first Scott Summers stood looking at the grave and thought he might cry. Alex had always been important to him, he had never stopped thinking about his brother. It seemed Alex had kept thinking about him, too.

Some of the graves were more ostentatious than others. Scott and Annie's were simple, although Annie's had quite a lot of flowers around it. She had been loved.

She was still loved.

"My grandpa says you hate God."

Of all the things she might have said!

"I… it's complicated."

"So? I'm your niece. Give me some credit here."

"It's a secret."

"I won't tell anyone."

Scott took a deep breath. He didn't know why he was about to tell her this. Maybe it was because she was Alex's granddaughter, or because she was being so direct and usually people didn't do that.

"I don't hate God. Not… usually. I kind of do right now. I didn't know Alex had lost a child."

"He was twenty-three."

"He was Alex's child. Ruth, my foster-mom, had a son, too. He had died before. She said it was the most unnatural thing in the world, to lose a child. That's why there's no word for it. We say bereaved, but… people who lose someone are bereaved. But there's nothing—like a widow or an orphan."

He had seen the pain, though. It was a pain Ruth lived with and one Chris had lived with, too. And Charles. Although they were moving forward now, Scott still felt the burden of abandoning someone the way he had been abandoned.

"I thought your foster-dad was my mom's Uncle Charles."

"He is."

"He was married?"

"No, they—it's complicated. You're a Summers. Family is going to be complicated for you."

That was perhaps the most useful thing any Summers could know.

"I told my mom I hated her," Annie said like a confession.

"I said the same to my father."

"The one you like or the one who kidnapped you?"

"Kidnapped me. I mean—it wasn't like that."

"You meant it, right?" she asked.

_I hate you, you took everything from me!_

He hated himself now for saying those words. He had been so angry and in so much pain… but he regretted it now because it had hurt Chris. Chris would never be Scott's dad, but he was his father. Despite it all, he was a good man.

"At the time," Scott said.

"Yeah. Me too. She was moving us here because she couldn't afford the rent anymore. I had to leave all my friends and… I was so mad… but I got to live with my grandma before she died."

She barely managed the last words, collapsing in on herself. Scott wasn't too surprised when she buried her face in her hands and started to cry. Sometimes a person needed to have a cry about things. Scott was the same way.

While she cried, she told him about the past few months, about going with her grandparents while Grandma had her last rounds of chemotherapy, about every time she should have sat down to dinner with her family only she didn't, about the days she was too busy texting her friends…

They left the graveyard quietly. Annie let Scott hold her hand for a while, but after a while pulled away and tucked her hands into her pockets instead.

Scott understood more than perhaps Annie thought. Over the months they spent together, he had eventually come to respect Chris, and to trust him, and maybe—just a little—to love him. Chris had hurt him once, and Scott had been close to ready to think about forgiving him… but then they had to come back home and now he wished he hadn't wasted so much time on hate.

"Annie?"

She wasn't next to him anymore. Scott turned; she waited about ten feet behind, near the Starbucks where they drank hot chocolates earlier.

"Hey… how much cash you got? I'll pay you back." she asked.

"Why?"

She told him.

So Annie went about her errand while Scott went to the market. When they met up again in half an hour, he carried a bag that held cookies, snacks, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

"Seriously? Kraft?"

"It's for your grandpa."

"We have like a million casseroles at home."

"I know, but this used to be his favorite food. When we were kids—our mom was a really awful cook. She used to feed us this stuff. Alex was adopted into another home, and everything was different. This was the same. It made him feel safer."

It was a strangely meaningful thing to say on the sidewalk outside a supermarket.

So he changed the subject.

"How did it feel?" he asked.

Annie ran her fingers through her hair. Scott hadn't seen it before, but from the way her hat had bulged, he knew it used to be much longer.

"I dyed it black," she said, "and then the roots were showing, and it just… it was total crap. And my mom was mad about it, and somehow I couldn't cut it because… I couldn't because she wanted me to…" She ran her fingers through her hair again. It was short but stylish, the same shade her grandfather’s hair had been before turning thoroughly grey. "I like it better now."  
  



	50. History

"You know what's weird?" Jean asked.

Ororo glanced up at her. They sat at opposite sides of the kitchen table, working on their respective homework assignments. The late afternoon sunlight brightened up the kitchen, making it bright and just a little too hot.

"I dunno," she said. "You?"

Which of course was absurd. Of the two of them, Jean understood how the modern era worked, knew about music and social networks and other things Ororo was just beginning to scratch the surface of. Jean was not the weirder of the pair, not by modern standards. They both knew it.

"I'm not weird," Jean retorted.

"You're taking chemistry and biology. Both. In one semester."

Jean rolled her eyes. "I'm gonna be a doctor, I've known that since I was ten."

"What happened when you were ten?" Ororo wondered.

When she was ten, she had been a thief, a pickpocket so contented with her life she could not imagine it changing—like for growing up. She had loved her friends and the challenge of their work. Looking back, she was a touch lonely, but only a touch. She had been closer to Achmed while most of her peers were closer to one another.

She was curious about Jean's answer. Partially it tied into Jean's weirdness, or rather her normalcy, something that fascinated Ororo. And partially, well, what made someone decide to be a doctor when they were still a little kid?

"My friend Annie died. It was the first time I used my telepathy—not that I knew it at the time, I was just a little kid—but I could feel her… dying. Part of the way I coped was by understanding. What had happened to Annie? The pieces that broke, what were they? I learned so much and I knew it was what I wanted to do with my life, to understand the human body. To be a human body expert."

Ororo looked at Jean's paper, a page of multi-step conversion equations. Vocabulary had often been a challenge for Ororo to learn science, but she recognized how the numbers related to one another. She didn't see the science, but she saw the math.

"You don't like reading," Jean observed, "but you like history, which is a lot of reading."

"I don't like fiction," Ororo said. "It isn't real, it doesn't look the way life does."

She remembered the silly stories Professor Xavier used to read her, like the story of a man who tried to jump into his pants rather than pull them on, or about the girl and her house accidentally killed a witch.

She remembered all those Hobbit stories Hank and Scott loved, how she never understood the appeal of something that was by definition past impossible.

At least Dick and Jane was realistic. It was boring, but it felt real. Real life was boring sometimes.

She still didn't like Dick and Jane.

"I like reading about how people live, or used to live. It makes more sense of what's real now."

After they did their homework, they watched a movie. They flipped a coin and Jean won the right to choose the film. Ororo griped a bit, but didn't really mind. She didn't tend to enjoy Jean's choices of films, but Jean found Ororo's complaints entertaining, so everybody won.

More to the point, Ororo didn't know many movies. She had only been to the theater once, to see a back-to-back showing of _Dr. No_ and _From Russia With Love_. It was weird that James Bond films kept being made with new James Bonds, but they weren't necessarily bad movies. She had liked _Die Another Day_ , at least. It was sort of the same in terms of plot—spy stuff, explosions, ladies without much clothes on. She didn't know how to explain quite why, but it mattered to her that a woman who looked a little bit like her could get into fights and spy and look both sexy and deadly at once. (Though it would have been nice if Bond didn't have to rescue her so much.)

Jean's romantic comedy was pretty standard—a couple of well-off attractive blond people liked each other but faced mild obstacles. Even Jean seemed a little bored by it, because she kept telekinetically stealing pieces of popcorn from Ororo.

* * *

 

"You're very quiet tonight," Professor Xavier observed, closing _Kon-Tiki_.

"Am I?" Ororo asked.

She knew she was. Maybe it had been years since he read to her, but it had been only months since she listened to him read—and she knew she had always been one for interruptions. Tonight she had just laid in bed and listened.

"Is something on your mind?"

"Me and Scott," she explained. "We've barely been apart for a single night in years. I know Hank will look after him, and he'll look after Alex. It still feels… it feels weird."

Ororo and Alex were not as close as Ororo and Scott, but she did care about him. He had been like a brother to her. Maybe not the same, but still important, and she felt for him and his loss. She was pleased that he would have Scott to take care of him.

"But," Ororo continued, "the past couple of days… I've had fun with Jean."

"You don't sound pleased about that."

"I don't have a lot of fun with Scott. I love him and I trust him and he's saved my life, but we don't laugh much together."

"Scott's a very serious young man, he always has been. It sounds like Jean brings a lot of balance to your life."

Ororo had not thought about it that way. She liked Jean, and she liked Scott—and that felt somehow wrong.

"You can have multiple friends, Ororo. In fact it's healthy to do so."

She wasn't sure why that had been a question, but it felt like one. She had never been good at having multiple friends. Even before, back in the 1960s, Alex was her friend but not in the way Scott was. She had never been close with Laurie… although she had gotten on well with Doug, they were amiable but never really shared enough to become close.

But being friends with Jean didn't stop her being friends with Scott. Being friends with Jean wasn't a betrayal.

She thought about it until she fell asleep.

When she woke up, it was like having Scott here.

She woke up to screaming.

Ororo scrambled out of bed and instinctively to the next room—Scott's room. It was empty of course, the room tidy and the bed made, Scott out of the state.

Instinct had taken her there. Now that she thought about it, the pitch was all wrong. And the furniture was shaking.

In the next room, she turned on the light. The room itself looked like a hurricane had hit. Normally Jean was reasonably tidy—not compulsively, the way Scott was, but tidy. At least until a nightmare triggered her telekinesis, the way it was doing now.

"Jean!" Ororo shook her. "Jean, wake up!" She kept shaking, but it wasn't doing much good. Finally Ororo grabbed a water bottle, uncapped it, and dumped it onto Jean's head.

That did the trick.

Jean sat up, gasping.

"Something's wrong!" she cried.

"It was just a bad dream."

"No, something's really wrong! I think something happened to Scott."

Ororo looked away. Something had happened to Scott. She knew, had seen the scars… something had happened, but it wasn't happening now, and they had agreed it was up to Scott to explain. Right now, that seemed cruel.

If that was even the case! Scott was all the way in Massachusetts. Could Jean sense him so far away?

"Jean, are you all right?"

Both girls turned to the doorway.

"I'm okay, Professor, but something's happened to Scott."

"I'm sure he—"

"No, he's not! I could feel it, he was so scared, he wouldn't be like that unless it was serious!"

Ororo looked at the Professor, knowing they both knew what this was about. They had seen Scott through a lot of bad nights. In fact, Scott had been the way Jean was now more than a few times.

"We're awake now, yes?" Professor Xavier asked.

"Bet you ten bucks he says he's gonna put the kettle on," Ororo muttered.

"What a lovely idea, Ororo."

So they made their way to the kitchen, where Ororo got the kettle started while Professor Xavier called Hank.

"I know it's late…. Jean's afraid something's wrong with Scott. That's him, isn't it?"

Ororo looked up sharply. She was sitting beside Jean, sticking with the rubbing-her-back thing, something that might have been helping a little bit. Still, she had heard that gasp from Jean—Professor Xavier wasn't helping!

He continued, "They weren't. Can I speak to him?… All right. I understand…. Thank you, Hank."

"He's not okay," Jean said, when Professor Xavier hung up the phone. "He's not okay!"

"Professor, I think we need to tell her. This isn't fair. Scott would never let anyone else do this kind of bullshit, hurt someone because they were so proud!"

"What isn't fair?" Jean asked, frantic. "What happened?"

"Nothing—that is, not tonight," Professor Xavier said.

The kettle whistled, and Ororo went to pour the tea. No one grew up in this house without learning to pour tea. Whether or not you liked tea, it was so much a part of life that not knowing about it was like not knowing how to tie your shoes.

Jean was crying now.

"When Scott was young, he was treated very badly. He was abused. It's been difficult for him. Sometimes he has very powerful nightmares about it, dreams that take him back to that time."

"About—oh my god," Jean groaned.

Ororo put a mug in front of her. "Drink. It'll calm you down."

"But you mean—is that—is that why he's so weird about his dad?"

"No," Ororo said. "Chris isn't like that. He wouldn't do anything like that." She caught Professor Xavier's expression—right. He and Chris Summers had never been close, and even though this _wasn't_ Chris's fault, Ororo did not want to be in the middle of it. "Hey… I'm gonna head back to bed, if you're okay?"

She wanted to stay, but she understood that Professor Xavier would take care of Jean. She trusted him to know what to do. And right now Ororo was in the way.

Jean nodded. "I'm okay," she said hoarsely. "Thanks."

* * *

 

Jean stayed up for a while, shivering off the sense of what she had felt. She knew Scott didn't like to talk about his childhood, or his dad. His father. She hadn't dreamed it was anything like what she felt that night, though.

"I didn't know," she said.

Professor Xavier shook his head. "How could you?" he asked. "Scott wasn't ready for you to know."

But, Jean thought, she should have known anyway. How many of his dreams had she shared without realizing it?

"I didn't think boys felt that way," she said. "I didn't think… things that make you feel like that… happened to boys."

"No one should ever be made to feel that way."

"Am I totally sexist for thinking that?" she wondered. It had never even entered her mind. There was something so disturbing to the way she felt when she had those dreams, so intimate, that it never occurred to her they might belong to a boy. How could they? That sense of having one's body taken, turned into an object and claimed for a prize to be violated and abused, it was too like something else. Too close to something she was used to being warned about because she was a girl.

"You are not totally sexist," Professor Xavier assured her. "There is a social stigma associated with the physical loss of control. It's not your fault, Jean, not in any way. What happened to Scott was terrible, but it is not your fault."

"No." Jean wrapped her arms across her chest. Her eyes were pink. She had stopped crying, or perhaps paused. She felt the enormity of this hovering over her; it would hit again. "Oh my god. That _man_ , he… oh my god. Oh my god. These things aren't supposed to happen, Professor. There are systems—social workers…"

"There are," Professor Xavier agreed, "but back in the 1950s, these things were far less regulated."

"Right, I keep forgetting."

Because, you know, her boyfriend was a time traveler who had been unspeakably abused by some 1950s psychopath. Not that there was anything unusual in Jean's life!

They sat quietly for a while. Jean found herself recalling the nightmares, what she had seen—felt. She remembered the fear and the pain.

"How old was he?" she asked after a while.

"He had just turned six when it started. When I found him, he was nearly sixteen."

"Oh my god."

She wanted him here. She wanted to hug him and know that he was okay—but she didn't know, and it made her that much worse. She tried to reach him telepathically, but now that she was awake and emotionally so tied up, she could barely focus.

When the phone rang, Jean nearly jumped out of her skin. The phone leapt into her hands, literally leapt from the table and into her hands. Sheepish, she handed it back to Professor Xavier.

"Hank… oh, hello, Scott. Are you all right?… she's safe, yes…." Jean suspected that was about her. Her suspicions were confirmed when Professor Xavier glanced at her and said, "Well, she's quite worried about you…. It would do her good to hear your voice, Scott."

After a moment, he offered the phone to Jean.

"Scott?"

"Hey, Jean," he said. He sounded horrible. Ragged and hoarse. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." She probably sounded ragged, too. "I had this terrible dream and I could feel that it was about you, I was scared."

"Don't be scared. Professor Xavier would never let anything happen to you."

"I was scared for _you_."

"I'm fine. I'm okay, Jean. I'll—I'll explain when I get home, all right?"

"Sure. Just take care of yourself, okay? Good night, Scott. I'll see you soon." 


	51. Phone Calls Home

The first night in Massachusetts, Hank and Scott checked into their motel late. The desk clerk kept staring at Hank, then darting his eyes to the computer screen, then back to staring. Hank had anticipated that. He was a man who stuck out. It was why he asked Scott to wait in the car; they were breaking the law and needed not to attract too much attention. Besides, Hank was used to the staring; Scott was not.

The room was unremarkable.

"I have to make a call," Hank said. "Are you all right on your own?"

"Is it okay if I get something from the vending machine?"

"Of course."

Hank stepped away to make his call.

It was picked up on the first ring: "Hank."

"Good evening, Charles. We've arrived safely."

"How is he?"

"He's holding up. Alex and Daisy aren't, but having Scott here seemed to help Alex."

By the time Hank returned to the room, Scott was asleep. There was half a Snickers bar on the nightstand.

The motel room's two lamps were only eighteen inches apart. Hank switched off the one closest to Scott, then settled on his bed and took out some papers to grade.

* * *

The second day had been spent mostly cleaning up and getting Alex and Daisy to do anything besides sit and stare at nothing. By unspoken agreement, Hank spent most of the day with Daisy, giving the brothers time to catch up.

It was possibly the most Hank had heard Alex talk in years: Vietnam, marriage, Daisy, holidays and birthdays and vacations and Presidents and the development of computers and cars. And computers in cars. Scott talked, too, filling Alex in on six brief months of adventures and what he was studying in school.

They stayed up late talking. When they returned to the motel, Scott had nodded off in the passenger seat. Hank had to shake him awake to stumble back to their room.

"Hey, Hank?"

"Hm."

"Can I tell you a secret?"

It was a strange question, mostly because Hank had always kept Scott's secrets. He had seen the scars Scott kept hidden from everyone else, even Charles.

"You can tell me anything."

"Okay," Scott agreed.

After a moment's silence, Hank asked, "Are you going to tell me?"

"Maybe later."

* * *

It was the third night that the phone rang at nearly one in the morning.

Hank ignored the first two calls.

The third time he grabbed his phone. "Charles."

"I know it's late," Charles began.

"I was awake."

"Jean's afraid something's wrong with Scott. That's him, isn't it?" he asked, hearing the gasps and sobs in the background.

Hank looked at Scott. He had forgotten what this felt like. It was easier to remember that Scott had been shy but grew more confident, that he had been protective, loyal, and kind. But he had been broken, too. Hank remembered hearing Scott cry out at night, but he had forgotten how it felt to hear.

"I didn't know the nightmares were this bad."

"They weren't. Can I speak to him?"

Hank was sitting beside Scott as they talked, and he knew Scott could hear Charles through the phone, but he was in no state to speak or even listen.

"Not right now."

After he hung up, Hank went to the bathroom and ran a glass of water, then returned to sit on the bed next to Scott. He was doing a little better than he had in 1964, able to sit up although he was still curled up and hugging his knees. His face was a mess of snot and tears.

"Try to drink this."

Scott did. Some of it went down. Some of it caught in the sobs and he coughed it back over himself.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's okay, Scott."

"Please don't be mad."

Hank hadn't thought it would be this way. Not at first. But when he heard Scott crying out in his sleep, when he fumbled in the dark for the lamp, he had known then.

"I'm not mad."

He had _never_ been mad, never lost his temper with Scott, but Hank knew Scott wasn't really talking to him.

After a while, when Scott was calmer, he said, "I'm really sorry."

"It's okay."

"I just…" He sniffled and shook his head. "Annie—um, Annie asked me why I hate God."

Hank had to admit, it was a good question. There were only two people he had ever seen spark real hatred in Scott, God and Chris Summers. And he seemed to have forgiven Chris.

"I lied," Scott said. "I told her I don't hate God. See… I used to be really religious when I was a kid. I went to church twice a week. I believed… I believed God loved me. In the orphanage, Milbury was—he used to—you know what he did. And one day, I—it was too much, and I ran away. I went to the church and I begged the priest. I don't know how you could miss it. He'd been hitting me, he—my face was swollen. I had a split lip and a cracked rib, and I begged Father Andrew not to send me back.

"He brought me into his office, gave me something to drink and a towel. It was raining. He said he'd take care of it. I didn't know where I was going to go, but I thought I was safe. I thought… I don't know. That God could see me now.

"But he'd just called Mr. Milbury to take me back to the orphanage, and Milbury was so mad. He was so mad. He said he was finished with me now, that I was bad and he was going to get rid of me and that… what he did to me… that he would do it to Alex and I would do anything, I would do anything to keep him safe, and so… he… he made me say things. How bad I was. How worthless. How… he… he m-made me… he said he would stop. He left me on the floor for three days and he would come and he would hurt me… he said he would stop. 'You just say the word. Do you want me to bring Alex here, or do you want me to teach you to be a good boy? Say please, Scott. Say thank you.'

"I said—I said please. I said please but I didn't mean it, I didn't want him to hurt me anymore, but he made me say it. _Please teach me to be a good boy_. He said if I screamed or cried he would get rid of me and I wanted Alex to be safe but sometimes I couldn't help it, it hurt, but I tried to be good."

Scott was shivering and sobbing hard enough to near choke himself. Hank had been sitting next to him, but he excused himself, promising, "I'll be right back, Scott."

Most motels rooms are basically similar. Hank grabbed a spare blanket from the closet and a spare roll of toilet paper from under the sink. The blanket he wrapped around Scott's shoulders.

"Hold onto this."

Scott did, pulling the blanket tighter around him.

Hank tore the wrapper off the toilet paper.

"Don't try to swallow. There's too much moisture in your throat."

Crying is a wet, sopping, messy business. Hank sat with Scott until he was calmer, until he had gone from halfway hysterical to merely upset.

Scott was still hiccupping sobs, his nose and eyes dripping, when he said, "Thank you."

"Always."

"Yeah, let's hope not."

Hank chuckled at what he recognized was meant as a feeble joke. "Fair enough."

He took the glass and refilled it.

"Crying costs a lot of liquid, you ought to drink as much as possible," he explained, taking a seat on the opposite bed.

Scott reached for the glass and gulped the water.

"Hank, he hasn't touched me in years. He might be dead by now, why—why is it still like this? Why am I?"

Hank was quiet for a moment, long enough that he knew he had to tell the truth. Scott was clever. He would know that Hank wanted to hold back something upsetting and he would know it was being held back unless he heard something sufficiently devastating.

"I believe that Milbury intentionally applied psychological tricks you were too young to understand. He literally changed your mind. He made you say those things and made you believe it was your fault. He… he made himself a part of you because you were too young to understand the difference between submission and consent."

Scott looked skeptical. "What difference?" he asked. "I said it was okay. I told him I deserved it. It was my fault, I was bad, I begged him to punish me!"

"You begged him not to hurt your brother. He saw that you loved Alex and he exploited that. Milbury wanted you to suffer, Scott. Or maybe just to make you compliant."

"But… why?"

"I thought about it for a long time, why anyone would do such a thing. We could find almost no background on him, nothing about where Milbury came from or who he was. Charles, in his own way, is a man of faith. He believes that all people have good in them. I never found any indication of proof that Milbury had a shred of goodness in him, but an absence of proof is not proof of absence."

"Why, Hank?"

"Bad people do bad things."

"Do weak people do weak things?"

"You're not weak."

"You said I submitted."

Hank shook his head. "Submission isn't weakness."

"Why?"

He thought on how to explain it that Scott would understand. "When Milbury hurt you, were you afraid?"

"I thought he would kill me. I was scared to die."

"Did you want him to stop hurting you?"

"Yes."

"He gave you an option to make it stop."

"He would have hurt Alex. I couldn't let him."

"Or was it easier not to fight back?"

"He would have hurt Alex."

"That's submission," Hank said. "Alex's well-being mattered more to you than your own safety. Consenting to something means wanting it, not resigning yourself to it. You never asked to be abused. He made you use those words to ask for your brother's safety, but you only ever used them to mean you wanted Alex protected. Not everyone would do what you did. You know, I used to look up to you."

"You did?"

"Very much so."

"Why?"

"We were similar, in some ways. We wanted to hide—you were hiding what Milbury made you see in yourself, I was hiding my appearance—but you never let it stop you doing what needed to be done. Ever since you left, I had tried to be brave the way you showed me."

Scott thought about that. His head had dipped and he almost seemed to have fallen asleep for a moment. Then he asked, "Should I call Professor Xavier and tell him I'm okay?"

"I think he'd appreciate that."

"It's late though. I just want to talk to him."

Hank offered his phone. "I don't think he's asleep."


	52. S'mores

Ororo couldn't sleep. There was no good reason for it. The weather had turned; she didn't lie in bed fighting increasingly sweaty sheets. The heat in New York was even worse than the heat in Egypt. But sometimes in Egypt she tried to sleep while she was so hungry her stomach felt like it was turning itself inside-out; she learned to breathe through the pain to escape into sleep. Tonight she felt fine physically, but her mind refused to go quiet.

Finally, she slipped out of bed and crept two doors down. She knew better than to just go into Jean's bedroom, even with Scott out of town. She knocked.

"Jean!"

Footsteps, then the door opened.

"What's up?" Jean asked.

"I can't sleep. Wanna… hang out?"

"S'mores?"

"Huh?"

Jean laughed. "Come on."

They headed to the kitchen, where Jean pulled out graham crackers, marshmallows, and a chocolate bar.

"It's a camp thing," Jean explained. "You all sit around the camp fire and toast marshmallows." She snapped two graham crackers in half and laid a piece of chocolate on each, then turned on the stove. "We don't have a camp fire," she said, "but we'll make do."

Ororo didn't totally understand, but was willing to go along and give it a try. She watched as Jean waved a hand and both marshmallows positioned themselves over the stove, turning slowly.

"I know I was kind of cold to you for a while," Ororo began.

"No, I get it," Jean assured her. "Me and Scott should've been way more careful, I don't blame you."

Ororo had been thinking about Scott, actually—about how much she had made fun of him. Which she had, a lot, because it was how she knew to communicate. To argue. To stay on top. But Scott—she wasn't even on top of him, because usually he just wouldn't play and it made her feel like a jerk.

She had been thinking about how easy it was to be mad at someone you trusted, and the way he pulled her out of their ship when they returned to Earth and what they must have looked like, walking along the road, filthy with space-dust and wearing clothes from decades back.

"So, what is it you like about Scott?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it like a physical thing?" Ororo asked. "Because he's the only boy around? Or do you really like him?"

"I like him."

"Why?"

"I thought Scott was your brother. Shouldn't you know what's to like about him?"

"I do know," Ororo said. "There's a lot of good in Scott, but playing around isn't his strongest suit, so if you're just playing with him, I want to know. Because you're cool and beautiful and he's totally crazy over you, and I don't want to see him get hurt if you don't really care."

Jean looked at her for a few seconds, then back to the marshmallows slowly twisting over the stovetop. They were puffing up now and starting to turn gently golden.

"Because he's not flashy," Jean said. "I've met flashy guys—a lot of flashy guys—but Scott just does what's right and looks after everyone else. He… he didn't hit on me."

Ororo couldn't hide her surprise. "Of course he didn't! Scott would never do that, he's the gentlest boy I've ever met."

"No, not—I mean flirting. He doesn't flirt. A lot of guys do that. They get in your face and try to make your decision for you, try to convince you how great they are, and it's… honestly a little flattering, but it's also really annoying. Scott doesn't do that. He doesn't try to make up your mind for you, just shows you what's what and lets you reason for yourself. Most guys won't just be themselves. I think the marshmallows are done."

Jean floated the marshmallows over to the half-made s'mores, setting one on either piece of chocolate and telekinetically topping it with the second graham cracker half. Let it sit for a while, she suggested, to soften up the chocolate some.

"I didn't realize," Jean said. "I mean, you and Scott… I've seen your nightmares, both of you, but nothing about the past few years. It's all from when you were young."

"Charles and Ruth wanted us to have a good life. They took care of us. It was a school, officially, so there were these other students, Doug and Laurie. Looking back, they must have had a difficult time. It was run more like a group home than a school, but Doug and Laurie had families. Real families."

"What happened to them?"

"Doug's mutation allowed him to understand all languages, even body language, so he went and became a lawyer. Charles still talks to him sometimes. Not so much Laurie, she always hated being a mutant—I'm not sure what she's doing now."

"I get that," Jean said. "Hating being a mutant."

"Do you?"

"I don't hate it, but I understand why someone would, especially after the other night. What I felt—what Scott was dreaming…" She shook her head. It must have been really awful. Ororo had never felt one of Scott's nightmares for herself, but she heard the way he cried. "The chocolate's probably melty by now," Jean changed the subject, picking up her s'more.

Ororo wasn't sure what the big deal was. They were okay—a little too much pure sugar, but not awful. Still, the snack wasn't bad and it gave her something to do in the meantime.

"So if you could, would you not be a mutant?" she asked.

Jean thought about it for a moment, and Ororo realized she probably would have answered differently during the day. It was sort of like the things she and Scott only shared at night. Night is the best time for secrets. You feel alone and unencumbered, like the time is all yours because you should be sleeping but since you're not, you have no responsibilities. Nothing to worry about. And no one will overhear.

During the day, Ororo thought, Jean would probably tell you she loved being a mutant.

"I don't know," she said, finally. "My mutation manifested when I was a little girl. I felt my best friend die. I felt her pain and her fear. That was the end of my childhood. You can't be a kid after that, you can barely be a person. But… it's not like I don't like my mutation at all. It's just hard sometimes. What about you?"

"Mine manifested just after I left Cairo. I was hitch-hiking to get to anywhere else, anywhere but Cairo. These men gave me a ride. They ripped my shirt. Then the lightning came. It went right through me but they fried. You know, it's funny," Ororo reflected thoughtfully, "I thought I could create rain, but actually had pulled it from the nearby areas. I made a drought, people died, and it still—it hurts. But I don't care about those men."

"Like they deserved to die," Jean said.

Ororo nodded. "If I weren't a mutant, I couldn't have protected myself. I don't know what I would be, but it's not this, it's not me. If I were even alive. Maybe some things I did were mistakes, big ones, but I wouldn't give up my mutation for anything. I'd have to give up my whole life along with it."


	53. That Kind of Person

Professor Xavier had given Scott one week in Massachusetts. Scott always was a stickler for rules and worried that if he botched this he might not be allowed to visit Alex again for two years, until after his eighteenth birthday. That did not stop Scott and Hank from taking every offered second of that week.

About halfway through Connecticut, Scott asked, "Hank, it's pretty normal these days when you… for someone to, uh…" It wasn't that he didn't want to say it. He simply could not find the words.

"You mean being gay?"

Scott nodded. Since Hank had his eyes on the road, Scott managed a, "Yes. Being gay."

"Well, it is and it isn't. It certainly matters to an individual. Socially, we're not a perfect country, but we've made a lot of progress. The short answer is that most people don't care about someone else's sexual orientation."

Scott nodded again and looked out the window. They had been on highways for what felt like hours—and probably had literally been hours.

Before they left, they had taken Annie to school. They said good-bye to Daisy and Alex. Alex promised to visit New York soon, so Scott could see him without breaking the law—which Alex seemed to have enjoyed mentioning as much as possible. Scott had broken the law.

_Scott had broken the law._

They were a few hours from home now. There wasn't much traffic in the middle of the day, and Hank's sensible five-below-the-speed-limit driving would have them back to New York in no time.

"You have to remember, Scott, people don't just become gay. Ororo's the same person you've always known."

Scott startled. "How did you—I didn't say that!"

Hank only shook his head in response.

"You said you'd keep it a secret, right?"

"Of course. Is it difficult for you? "

"No—it's not like that. Actually, I've known for a while, since—I think she had a, a fling, with an alien girl we knew. Besides, my stepmom's a skunk, there's weirder stuff in my life. The part I wanted your advice on is that Ororo had feelings for Jean. I didn't know that."

"And she walked in on you and Jean?"

"Yes. Me and Ororo are okay and I think she's talking to Jean again, but I don't know what to do."

"Did you talk to Ororo about it?"

Scott nodded. "After it happened. She was upset. I think she felt a little better. She doesn't really let you know what she's feeling and when she gets hurts, I want to help but I don't know how."

"You've always been a good friend to Ororo."

He nodded again and sighed. "I just think she's still hurting and there's nothing I can do. Do you think it's okay for me to be with Jean? Like dating?"

Hank was quiet a moment. Scott appreciated that; it was part of why he had always valued Hank's advice. On a big issue, he did not just give his first impulsive thought.

"Ultimately it's up to you and Jean," he said, "but you know how easily Ororo is hurt when she feels excluded from things. You can be considerate of her feelings without having to forgo a relationship on the basis of them."

"You won't tell her I told you anything, will you?"

"I heard everything in complete confidence."

They reached home a few hours after that.

The conversation had turned since then, covering what Scott had been studying—what he had probably missed, being away for a week—and Hank's research—with Scott making his dearest attempts at understanding. They talked about movies and books and how great the Beatles were, although after enough car rides with Jean, Scott wasn't totally opposed to the Fray. They weren't the Beatles, but they were okay.

A few months ago, when Ororo and Scott walked along this road believing it was still the 1960s, he had felt relief at the thought of finally being home, yet conflicted, missing Chris and the Starjammers. It was the same now. Scott was happy to be home, more truly happy because he knew what his home was. Months ago, they knew the building but had been uncertain what sort of reception they would find there. He knew now, and although he would see Alex again soon, Scott already missed him.

Ororo and Jean weren't there.

"They're in town," Professor Xavier explained, "they won't be long."

"Ororo's skipped out on bail, has she?" Hank replied.

"She isn't grounded, Hank."

She had been grounded for a long time after the party. Scott remembered when the Professor threatened to ground him until he died. He had been such a gullible kid, a part of him believed it.

"How was Connecticut? And Alex?"

"Alex is…" Scott began, and trailed off. It was the first time he saw his brother in years but the reunion had taken a backseat to Alex's loss. "He'll be okay," Scott said, truly believing it.

After a few minutes, Hank suggested that Scott might want to unpack. Scott looked from Hank to Professor Xavier, understanding that Hank really meant he wanted a private word.

"Sure," he agreed, reluctant but guardedly trusting.

* * *

 

There were factors besides legality to Charles's unwillingness to send Scott to Massachusetts. Scott wasn't the sort of boy who wanted to explore the world—no, he wanted to stay right at home normally, and that was fine with Charles. If Scott wasn't here, well, he worried. There was so much already done to him, so many ways he might still be hurt.

Charles worried more about Scott than the others. Jean knew this world. She was a savvy, modern kid and her judgment was generally sound. Ororo was tough. She was only now learning to protect herself and be open to her emotions at the same time, but she was scrappy and determined. They were capable, competent young women. It wasn't that Scott was incapable or incompetent, precisely. It was his instinct to run into fire instead of away.

In a way it reminded him of the other Scott Summers.

Charles knew him, of course. Alex had occasionally deposited his children at the mansion. July of 1991, Daisy was fifteen and had no interest in spending time with anyone who wasn't cool—though she would later look back on her puffy hair and flannel shirts with due embarrassment. "Cool" indeed! Scottie was eleven and only wanted to talk about one thing. He spent most of the summer lifting weights and running trenches into the lawn.

_A fireman is like a soldier, that's what Dad says. He says you have to be a special kind of person to be a fireman, that you have to be willing to run into danger when everyone else is running away. He says I won't know until I get there. Do you think I'm that kind of person, Uncle Charles?_

He had been that kind of person, in fact.

So was Scott. They would put themselves in danger to keep others safe.

There were very few people Charles would trust with Scott. Not that he would admit it, not to Scott certainly; it would be an insult to a boy his age. But while Charles trusted Scott to look after himself most of the time, he did not trust most people to protect him when he was vulnerable and guide him when he was lost.

Alex. Ruth. Hank.

Even when Scott was home safe, it wasn't quite over, not after the nightmare.

Charles mentally braced himself for bad news and was quite surprised by what Hank said next.

"The next morning, he was ready to leave first thing so he could walk Annie to school. He's ready, Charles. It's time."

 


	54. You and Me Together

  
Scott was in his room, unpacking from his trip to Massachusetts. Almost all of his clothes went into the laundry basket. He returned the books to the shelves; they were from the library, with laminated covers and labels on the sides naming authors. He hadn’t read very much on his trip, just a few chapters.  
  
It had been a very long week, and he enjoyed the quiet, familiar, orderly room.  
  
Still, he didn’t mind the interruption when Ororo knocked on the door jamb. “Hey,” she told him.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“So… Professor Xavier says not to bother you and give you space. But I brought you this.”   
  
She held out a mug. Scott took it and sipped. When he realized what it was, he smiled. Ruth used to give them warm milk and honey when they were sick or upset. It reminded him of her and eased the rawness crying left in his throat.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Ororo smiled. She didn’t come in, but she didn’t leave, either.  
  
“How’s Alex?”  
  
“He’s tough. It’s going to be hard for a while, but he’s strong now. He has a daughter and a granddaughter who’s a lot like you were at her age. He asked about you.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah, I told him you got eaten by a space worm.”  
  
Ororo laughed and shoved Scott. “Twerp.”  
  
“Gnat,” he retorted, also laughing.  
  
She let the laughter fade before asking about a more serious matter.  
  
“I need to tell you something that Chris told me. And I promised I wouldn’t tell you, but you’re here now and he’s not and I think it might be a problem.”  
  
Scott nodded. “Okay.”  
  
“Do you remember that fight we had on Standing Still?”  
  
Scott nodded again. She had been closer with Chris than Scott had, initially, and was annoyed with Scott for his coldness. They fought, then went their separate ways to cool off. He remembered seeing Chris with Ororo that day, too, but he hadn’t thought much of it.  
  
She took a deep breath.  
  
“Chris told me that when you were little, he used to drink too much and that there were things that weren’t his business saying, but that he hadn’t been a good father or a good husband, and it still upset you to see him drinking.”  
  
Scott’s jaw twitched, but otherwise he didn’t react. It wasn’t untrue. He just didn’t want Ororo to know about that time Chris lost control. Chris could not undo the past, but in the end, he had proved himself. Scott had trusted him. But Ororo had always trusted him and Scott wasn’t sure how he would feel if she had trusted him without needing proof, knowing what he was in the beginning.  
  
“That’s all he told me. It occurred to me later that what happened at the party, maybe it had bothered you to see me that way. I still didn’t say anything because Chris made me promise I wouldn’t, but after that night you were away—”

  
“Hey. It’s not like that.”  
  
“It’s not?”  
  
Scott shook his head. “Ororo… I’m never going to be quite right. That’s okay. I accept the way I am. There are certain things I’ll never do, risks I won’t take, but I don’t want the people around me to miss out on what they want. I live my life, Ororo. You live yours.”  
  
She smiled, reassured. “I won’t drag you to any more parties, I promise.”  
  
“Like hell!” Scott said. “I said you live your life. And the way you do that, I’m going to be there every time to make sure you get home safe.”  
  
Even though she was younger, Ororo had never appreciated being treated that way. With Scott, it was different. Protective in a way she didn’t mind because she knew to him she was a person, not just an age.  
  
“I’m going to talk to Jean in a little while, make things right with her. She deserves to know why I didn’t tell her about my dreams before. Are you… are you okay with me and Jean? You know.”  
  
He had thought about what Hank said, about how Ororo was easily hurt when she felt left out of things. It was true and Scott could understand that. He wasn’t going to end things with Jean to spare Ororo’s feelings, because he cared for her, too. If he was careful, though, if he didn’t act thoughtlessly, Scott believed he could keep both relationships. They were his closest friends and he didn’t want to lose what he had with either of them.  
  
Besides—he knew. He and Ororo had been through more together than most people could imagine.  
  
“Sure, she said, shrugging like it didn’t matter to her when he could tell it did. After a moment she ceded, “It just—it was supposed to be you and me together.”  
  
“It is you and me together. I’m on your side, I’m always on your side. But you and me together doesn’t have to mean you and me alone.”  
  
She hugged him. “I love you, but you really are a dork, you know.”  
  
“Yes, well—you’re fifteen.”  
 

* * *

  
   
Less than an hour later, Scott paused outside Professor Xavier’s study. He heard voices inside, the professor and Jean, and waited a moment to determine the emotional quality of their conversation. If it seemed desperate or upset, he would walk away.  
  
But the voices were fairly steady, so Scott knocked, then came in. Jean turned and smiled at him, but it was a tense smile. So was his in response.  
  
“I was just going to take a walk,” he explained.  
  
“Are you going far?”  
  
“No, I’ll stay on the property.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
“I thought if you’re not too busy, maybe Jean would like to come with me?”  
  
Jean’s expression answered quite clearly. “Oh, but—” She hesitated and glanced at Professor Xavier.  
  
“Go on,” he told her. “It can wait.”  
  
They grabbed their jackets and headed out. They had missed each other, had wanted to be together, but now that they were together, neither knew what to say. They headed down the driveway in awkward silence for a while, but their hands found one another.  
  
“So… how was Massachusetts?” Jean asked.  
  
“It was okay. Intense. I guess I still owe you an apology from before. I—”  
  
“Scott, don’t. I don’t want you to apologize because you don’t get it. You were going to apologize for hurting my feelings, right?”  
  
“Well—shouldn’t I?”  
  
Jean sighed. She looked up and Scott followed her gaze to a crisp, cloudless sky. There were many things he liked about New York, but the summers were not one of them. He was glad to feel the autumn weather setting in.  
  
“Scott, I was naked on top of you and you ran out of the room. You made me feel like I didn’t matter.”  
  
“You matter.”  
  
Jean sighed again. Apparently that hadn’t been the right thing to say, either, and Scott didn’t know what was. Girls never just said!  
  
So he just asked.  
  
“How do I make it right?”  
  
After a moment, she suggested, “Don’t be a jerk going forward.”  
  
“So there’s an us going forward?”  
  
“There’s an us,” Jean confirmed. She squeezed his hand gently, not ready to say much else quite yet. She brushed stray strands of hair off her face as she put together the words. “Why didn’t you tell me those dreams were yours?”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“Scott, I wouldn’t have thought differently of you. It wasn’t your fault, I know that.”  
  
“It’s not that…”  
  
“Well is it—were you embarrassed?”  
  
“No, I just—ever since what happened, I was messed up. When I met you, it was like I got a chance to know someone who didn’t see me that way. I didn’t want that to change. With you, I got to leave him behind.” And now he was back where he had started, where some part of him, in every important relationship he had, would always be that frightened little boy.  
  
“That’s not what I see!” Jean cried, but she didn’t sound annoyed anymore. Only empathetic. She let go of his hand and stepped in front of him. “I see _you_ , Scott. Not him.”  
  
“Do you? Can you forget the fear, the humiliation? Because I can’t. It’ll never go away for me.”  
  
“Well—no. Maybe I can’t forget. But it doesn’t have to matter. I loved you before I knew, I still love you.”  
  
Scott didn’t answer for a moment. What she had said was significant to him in a way he thought she understood—and it was significant to her, too. She bit her lip and looked away. It had made her vulnerable. And it made him powerful. Normally that would have made both of them extremely uncomfortable. Instead it made them feel like the world had dropped away for a moment, and just left them.  
  
“I—I love you, too.”  
  
He tried to kiss her like in one of those romantic movies she liked so much.  
  
He really did try.  
  
But their teeth clacked together, and her lip was caught in the middle.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“Sorry!”  
  
“It’s okay. We’ll work on that.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Practice makes perfect.”  
  



	55. Time

The students waited for a moment in the hallway outside their bedrooms.

"Do you know what this is about?" Jean asked.

She had been happy to have Scott home. He didn't talk much about Massachusetts, but it didn't seem like a bad not talking. He answered her question and the rest was still processing. Jean understood. It wasn't easy to deal with tragedy.

Mostly she had liked having him there, just being nearby.

It was Saturday now. They were going to do something different today, though none of the students knew what that 'something different' would be. Just that gym clothes were recommended. And for the first time in a long time, Jean had butterflies in her stomach that were not a proximity issue about the boy with the red glasses.

Scott and Ororo shook their heads.

"Training," Scott guessed.

"Probably," Ororo agreed. "We used to train much more than we do now."

As they went to meet up with Professor Xavier and Hank, Jean nudged Ororo. "Hey—I totally thought this was a sports bra thing." Jean was wearing one, but she could tell Ororo was not. Which, had she known, she would have done the same. She rather liked the way Scott tried to pretend he hadn't noticed.

"What?" Ororo asked.

"Like… active?"

"Sports bra?"

Ah.

Jean tried not to make assumptions on what Ororo did and didn't know. It seemed demeaning—but the truth was it had nothing to do with Ororo being African. Cairo was a major city, after all! It was about the time travel situation, and the fact that Ruth wasn't around to teach her these things anymore.

"We'll go shopping," Jean promised.

They met Hank and Professor Xavier in a hallway near the front door. One of the walls was open.

"That's… is that a panic room?" Jean had always known Professor Xavier was eccentric, but this usually wasn't the sort of eccentricity she meant!

"It's an elevator," Scott said. "I remember when it was built. Are we going down to the bomb shelter?"

"In a way," Professor Xavier said.

Scott shrugged and stepped into the elevator. The others did likewise.

"As some of you will recall, in the summer of 1964 there were some rather major renovations."

"We never saw it finished," Ororo recalled softly. They hadn't seen it finished, because the work was still in progress when she and Scott disappeared.

But she remembered watching as the work was done. She had liked to peer into the great hole in the ground, to look down at dusk when she couldn't see the bottom and could only sense it from the way the winds curled.

"You're going to," Professor Xavier told her.

The elevator door opened into a metal-lined corridor. It was well-lit but very odd, mildly industrial. Professor Xavier led them out and although Scott didn't say anything, this place made him suddenly nauseous. Hank understood and patted his shoulder reassuringly. He had never had a good experience with a secret underground facility.

"When we were first starting up, Scott trained in the bomb shelter," Charles told Jean. "It was the safest part of the school. Safe from him, that is! Built to withstand nuclear war. Since then we've made a few improvements."

The door slid open, revealing how much of an understatement that was. The room was huge, shiny metal.

"You okay?" Jean asked Scott. She couldn't help noticing that he seemed a little off and while she meant to whisper, the sound carried.

He nodded. "Fine."

"We brought you all down here because this is where we trained the X-Men. More and more mutant 'rumor' stories are making the news. Soon we won't be a rumor anymore. They'll know we're real. Some mutants will need to be protected from humans and some humans will need to be protected from mutants. You're here because you have extraordinary abilities, each of you is capable of great things. You're still young and we won't make this decision for you. Do you want to be X-Men?"

Ororo and Scott answered immediately, both affirmatives. They had wanted to be X-Men for years, had just been waiting for the offer. Now apparently they were ready. It was time.

Jean was less sure. She looked around the room, looked at the others. The truth was… Jean was normal. All of them, for whatever reason, would get a second glance. They didn't get a choice, especially Hank—they just _were_ mutants.

Jean did not have to be.

She looked normal. She came from a regular family. Her powers were under control now, mostly. She could walk away from this.

But then, she could've walked away for the new semester and gone home. She chose not to do that. She chose to stay, because she belonged here without having to hide even though she could.

She nodded. "Yeah. Me too."

"So are we here to train?" Scott asked.

Hank grinned. "New and improved training room," he said. "Wait until you see what she can do."


	56. Epilogue

**Two years later…**

They were so close to safety—the whole town was. The last of their enemies stood just across the river. With teleportation and super strength on his side, this guy wasn't going down easy—but they knew his weaknesses now. He needed to see where he was going to teleport there, so all they needed to do was… blind him.

"We're not blinding him," Scott said.

"If Jean takes out his eye—"

"No. No maiming," Scott insisted. They were huddled behind a dense group of trees. Once they broke cover, they needed to all be on the same page. "Here's what we do…"

Scott and Jean darted out from behind the trees a moment later. They stayed together, running for the bridge. It was half-destroyed and their opponent began hurling rocks at them as they tried to shore up the supports. Many of the rocks were halfway to boulders, too heavy for Jean to deflect. She focused on the bridge while Scott blasted the boulders to gravel.

Their opponent realized their true plan too late.

A small hurricane spun toward him.

He roared and searched the opposite shore, knowing the weather-witch was there somewhere. She had to be.

He had turned his attention from Scott and Jean, and they took this opportunity to run back into the trees. They needed to reach Ororo, to be together as a team right now.

"Scott!"

Jean pointed.

A blast of red energy shattered the boulder, but not soon enough. Jean tossed up a telekinetic shield as they reached Ororo, sending debris bouncing off them like rain off an umbrella.

The cyclone picked up their opponent now. He howled in rage as he approached the other shore, threatening, promising to destroy them all the second this unnatural wind released him.

And then it did, dropping him six feet to the ground.

"Jean, now!"

She knew her part in this and hurled herself forward, gathering her telepathic strength and focusing on this mind, on putting it to sleep the second she touched his forehead…

It all fell away.

They stood once more in the Danger Room, nothing but shining metal surrounding them.

"Good work today," Scott said. "Storm, the cyclones are really coming along."

"Need more work," she replied.

"Yeah, but they're coming along. Let's hit the showers."

"We have time for one more," Ororo said, but she followed Scott and Jean out of the Danger Room.

"I don't," Jean said, "I have to study. School starts in a week and I'm going to be ready."

After two years, she was transferring to Columbia. It meant commuting into the city, but since she upgraded from that beat-up old Ford held together by bumper stickers, she had absolutely no concerns. She would finish up her undergraduate work, keep up that 4.0, and hop right to medical school.

"So me and you can run one," Ororo told Scott.

"Nice try," he said.

They stepped into shower stalls next to one another to continue their conversation.

"I meant what I said in there. Cyclones in the Danger Room have always been tough for you and they're looking great."

"I can't split my focus," Ororo replied. She sighed as a stream of warm water hit her. The Danger Room might not be real danger, but the challenge was real and it left her a sweaty mess.

"So we keep working," Scott said, raising his voice to be heard over the showers. "We improve, that's why we're here."

"I'd stay down here all day," she said.

"Ororo, are you nervous?"

"No."

She was.

"It's really weird that you guys talk in the showers," Jean chimed in.

"I can hurry up," Ororo retorted. "I know you like talking to Scott when you're all naked and wet."

"God, you're horrible!" Jean yelped, but they both knew it was in good fun.

The past two years had been eventful for all of them. They were eighteen now—Ororo and Scott were old enough to get their hair cut without permission from a social worker.

Jean had transferred, but Ororo and Scott graduated. They still planned to turn the associate degrees into bachelors, but wanted to use distance learning options, legitimate online schools. Neither wanted to leave home. Ororo had been surprised to find there were subjects she liked even more than science. She didn't mind reading when it was history. When it was real, true things without silliness put in.

Ororo treated foster care like a waiting game, but Scott had more difficulty. He chafed at the restrictions, at times when only being allowed to call his family in Massachusetts instead of seeing them wasn't enough. He had volunteered weekends and evenings putting away books, but not been allowed to participate in a 'lock-in at the library'. But he was eighteen now. The lock-in had been barely more than a year ago—but still seemed childish.

Throughout all of it, they had trained. They got to know the Danger Room well, and their own limits—and the malleability of those limits. Their abilities to push through.

Scott was dressed and leaning against his locker with a book by the time Ororo and Jean shut off the water.

They left the basement in civilian clothes, looking for all the world like a group of normal teenagers. Well… perhaps not normal. Not with Ororo's white hair and Scott's red glasses. But close enough.

It was move-in day.

There were designated halls for the girls and the boys. Tacking up signs with each new student's name had been Jean's idea. It would be a small class, five boys and six girls. Most of them were only a few years younger than Ororo, Scott, and Jean—but as soon as the new students arrived, the older ones were there to show them to the dorms, talk to them about the school. Some were eager to talk about mutations. Some were shy to.

Move-in started at ten. The last boy arrived shortly after one. As Scott walked him to his room, he asked, "So how long have you, y'know?"

"Had my mutation?" Scott guessed. He chuckled. "Feels like forever. You get used to it. Being a mutant is just another way of thinking."

"Have you been here long?"

"A few years. It's been great. You don't have to think that," he added, glancing at the kid. "It's okay if you're not happy, or need a while to adjust."

Professor Xavier had told them that. The new students might need time to get used to this, and the best thing for Ororo, Scott, and Jean to do was understand. Don't try to change their minds.

It had been a particular stumbling block for Scott. In Omaha, he had been a scared kid stumbling through remedial classes and cowering from everyone. Here he had learned to stand up for himself. Not only that, his education had been put back on track. It was hard to be smart when you lost chunks of time and tried to do your homework when you were frightened, cold, and hungry—when you were allowed time for homework at all. Scott liked who he was now. He attributed that to Professor Xavier and he knew it would be hard to hear complaints about the professor or his school.

But 'easy' was not in Scott's job description. Never had been.

"Hey, this is me! Cool sign."

"I'll tell Jean you said so. Anything else you need?"

"No—um, yeah. Where's the bathroom?"

Another of the new students was walking past and he jumped in, "Down that way."

Scott stepped back, letting the two of them start on their introductions. Besides—he had heard a motor aside. He rushed down the stairs, leaping over the last two to reach the door as soon as he could. He was five yards away when it opened.

Standing there was a very familiar young woman. Her hair had grown out and her face wasn't set in that determined sulk, but it was still—

"Hey, Annie."

"Uncle Scott!"

She bolted forward and threw her arms around him, laughing.

"Can you believe it, can you believe I'm here!" she squealed.

"I can," Alex said. "You're a Summers."

That evening's dinner almost reminded Scott of the foundlings' home—or rather, the foundlings' home as it should have been. The eleven students were starting to develop friendships. Some were still nervous and adapting, others already joking together. Scott only half paid attention to the conversation, half making mental notes of which students were more likely to need extra attention. Annie took cares to ignore him. Scott didn’t mind; she wanted to build relationships as herself, not his niece. He understood that.

Later, the five of them gathered in Charles's study—Ororo, Scott, Jean, Charles, and Alex. The new students had been here only hours, but already they had new appreciation for a few quiet moments.

"Initial impressions?" Charles asked.

"I would watch out for that Annie kid," Ororo said, "she seems like a trouble-maker."

Alex chuckled. "She's a Summers."

"Summers doesn't mean trouble-maker," Scott objected.

"Summers means exceptional," Alex said. "You chose to be good, you're great. Annie chooses to be a hellion…"

"They seem like good kids," Jean offered. "It's a little overwhelming, but I can't imagine how they feel."

"All over the place," Ororo suggested. "Happy to be among others. Scared of a new place, or of themselves."

"Or of each other," Scott added.

"And what about all of you?" Charles asked. "We've discussed this for some time, but always in our own small world. With the children here, it's become a rather larger world, so the question bears repeating: how does it feel to be X-Men?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> I mean it this time.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, especially those of you who have left reviews and kudos. 
> 
> I started this series four and a half years ago. It's been quite a ride. It didn't always turn out as I had hoped and took directions I hadn't originally intended sometimes... as did my life... but you're probably not too interested in all of that! Really I just wanted to say thank you for reading.


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